The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python
by Westron Wynde
Summary: Sherlock Holmes relates one of his early cases concerning the death of a famous magician, where his investigation took him deep into the heart of the bright and bawdy world of the Music Hall, to meet with the most unusual of perils! COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

**Sherlock Holmes is the singular and exceptional creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This story is a work of fan fiction, written by a fan, for the pleasure of other fans and no harm is meant or intended by its creation.**

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_Yes, it's the case that Holmes promised to tell Watson about at the end of_ **'The Adventure of Ex-President Murillo's Papers'.**

_And because Watson was too shocked to write this scandalous story down, we'll let Mr Holmes tell it in his own way._

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_**The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python**_

**Prologue**

It was late and I was tired. The audience had been most trying, but had hardly presented me with much of a mental challenge. A costermonger, a seamstress, a governess and her two wards, a bailiff, a solicitor's clerk – all easily identifiable from certain tell-tale signs about their persons, and yet their astonishment at my pronouncement was as great as if I had produced a live elephant from out of thin air. Clearly, should I ever consider abandoning the life of a consulting detective, then a career on the stage beckoned.

Mr Brownlow was thrilled, naturally; the Magnificent Memphisto was earning his keep on a twice-daily basis, if making precious little headway in the case. The suspects were many – the jealous wife, the nervous assistant, the frustrated husband, and a whole host of other people who may or may not have had good cause for wishing the conjuror dead. All it needed was the application of a little serious thought and I would be free of this place.

Except tonight enlightenment would not come. My brain was fevered from the nervous tension and sheer exhaustion of the performance. I wished only to slip into my bed and into the arms of Morpheus in the expectation of a better and brighter day with the dawn.

With this in mind, I returned to my dressing room and began to peel off my stage clothes. I was down to my shirtsleeves when there came to my ear the faint creak of old hinges being turned and a silent step onto the wooden boards. I turned, in full anticipation of attack, and found not some club-wielding demon, but rather Mrs Webber, the Strong Woman of Stoke Poges, standing with her back to the door and regarding me with the look of hungry lioness. She had, I noticed, discarded her turquoise wig, although she still wore her stage dress of shot silk and green velvet.

"Mrs Webber, how may I help you?" said I.

"You retired early, young man," she purred, running her copious tongue over her full red lips. "Did you think I would not notice?"

Quite why she should think that important quite escaped me, but clearly she had something in mind and I held out a hope that it might be the very thing to finally solve this tangled mystery.

"Very observant of you, madam."

She grinned, cat-like, revealing the gaps in her yellow teeth.

"And you knew that I would come, didn't you, you naughty boy?"

There was that about her tone I did not like. It struck that either one or other of us had entirely misread the situation and thus we were taking at cross-purposes.

"Mrs Webber, I don't know –"

"Call me Carlotta, please," said she, pushing her ample body from the door and approaching with feline ease. "You can hardly continue to call me Mrs Webber under the circumstances. And what shall I call you, young Mr Holmes?"

I backed away from her advance and came up hard against the rear wall, making the pictures dangling from their nails rattle in their frames.

"Mr Holmes is perfectly adequate," said I. "Mrs Webber, I really think you should leave."

I had raised my hands to prevent her drawing any closer to my immediate proximity and had the misfortune to come up against her buxom chest, which strained against the bodice of dress like an overstuffed pillow. She grinned impishly at my unfortunate gesture, grabbed my hands and pressed them to her bosom, so that I could feel the pounding of her heart through the acres of flesh.

"I am a passionate woman," said she breathlessly, treating me to the overwhelming odour of cheap gin and Hobson's Curly Cut tobacco which I could detect on her breath. "I know you've been asking questions about me. You want me, don't you?"

"Mrs Webber," I protested in the strongest of terms, trying to wrest my hands from her grasp. "You mistake my interest."

Her lips quivered as she inhaled deeply. "Do not be afraid to give into those passions which lie between man and woman," said she. "I will be gentle with you."

Despite her fine words, her next action was to rip open my shirt, relieving me of several buttons in the process, which bounced across the floor like a shower of golden coins.

"Madam," said I. "I order you to desist. You have a husband."

"But I am still a woman, Mr Holmes," said she huskily, latching onto my bare chest to paw at me as if I was so much horseflesh in the Newmarket sales. "My husband is old and spent and you are young and vital."

That was not the description I should liked to have applied to Mr Webber, at least not to his face. As the resident strongman, as he claimed, the first man in Britain to bench-press 400 pounds, and other half of their double act, I would have thought a more dignified epithet for the gentleman was in order.

However, I was in a somewhat awkward situation. I was squarely trapped twixt Mrs Webber's bulk and the wall, with precious little space for escape either side in the narrow confines of my dressing room. As her attentions grew increasingly over-familiar, I sought a means of extricating myself that did not involve either unnecessarily hurting her feelings or succumbing to the unacceptable use of force, which in her case, I was not entirely sure would succeed.

"What if your husband should find us, madam?" I said vainly, hoping that she might yet see sense.

"He won't. He's drunk and already asleep. We shall not be disturbed."

To my very great consternation, in an instant she had hauled me over to the bed, threw me down and clambered swiftly on top of me, fairly crushing life and breath from my lungs beneath her considerable bulk. I was pinned, hopelessly at her mercy and wondering how on earth I had managed to end up in this undignified position.

Worse still, I had no idea how I was going to get out of it.

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_Yes, you are allowed to laugh at Holmes' predicament. Told you it was scandalous ;) _

_If, like Holmes, you too are wondering how this unfortunate situation came about, then onwards to Chapter One._

_Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!_


	2. Chapter One

_**The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python**_

**Chapter One**

It is curious to think now, looking back over a long and, for the most part successful career, that there was a time when my future as a consulting detective was seriously in doubt. The need that drove my friend and biographer, Dr Watson, into the army to practice his art had a similarly disheartening effect on myself, for a biting winter's day in January 1878 found me not in the comfort of my Montague Street rooms, but standing outside on the slush-covered pavement, wondering what I was to do in the novel event of my now being homeless.

I have spoken before – and Watson has been kind enough to relate – that in the period before the peculiar events concerning the Musgrave Ritual, which set me on the path towards the position I hold now, my time was marked by months of inaction interspersed with several few and far between cases, mostly brought to me by old fellow students. In my abundant leisure time, I pursued a furtherance of my studies in certain branches of science, but as interesting as they proved to be, they were hardly lucrative.

When one's attention is turned to higher matters, small things, like the coins in one's pocket, tend to slip the mind. Having lived beyond my means, in all its opulent frugality, I found myself unable to pay the rent for the third week running. Thus, I returned one afternoon to find the door barred against me and the landlady asserting that she had no intention of admitting me until she saw some money. She gave me a week to make good on my debt or, as she described in graphic detail, I could expect to find my belongings cast out onto the street.

It was an unhappy situation in which to find oneself. By this time, I had had one serious case to my name and that I had undertaken largely for the challenge rather than for any pecuniary interest. The fee I had received was desultory beside the satisfaction of a successful conclusion; however, one's priorities tend to change when finding oneself homeless with darkening clouds overhead and the promise of more snow in the air.

The only option left to me was to throw myself on my brother's purse and mercy. It was a step that gave me some pause; not that he had any strong objections to my choosing to pursue my inclination, but I knew that my need would give him good reason to resurrect his old diatribe about my finding an occupation that paid enough to keep a roof over my head. Considering my present predicament, even I had to admit that he had a point.

Providence stepped in at that moment, in one of those happy coincidences that with hindsight seem quite unbelievable, to persuade me that my talents had a valid and profitable application after all. I had set my face against the wind and my soul buttressed against despondency, when a cheery voice hallooed my name over the noise of the passing traffic.

I turned to find a red-faced, clean-shaven, portly young man bounding towards me, waving his hand with such vigour that I thought he must be on the verge of apoplexy.

"By Jove," said he; "I thought it was you. Sherlock Holmes, my old friend, you will never know how glad I am to see you!"

I should state at this point that 'friend' was perhaps a slightly too intimate term to describe my hitherto association with this gentleman, Horace Merrivale.

We had attended the same college and I had some passing acquaintance with the fellow, enough to know that he was decidedly unhappy and unsuited to the life of a lawyer for which his studies were meant to prepare him. As far as I could gather, the choice had been that of his parents, while his own predilection was for a life on the stage, not without some justification, for a finer _basso profundo_ I have yet to hear. Unsurprisingly, the majority of his time was spent in the college chapel, where the choirmaster made ample use of his talents.

As far as I could see, there was no hope for him as he had not the strength of character to defy his family's will. However, in the middle of our second year, he had the misfortune to suffer the loss of both parents within the space of two months, whereupon he abandoned his studies to pursue his ambition. His tutors were much aggrieved, but I had the greatest respect for Merrivale's utter faith in his conviction that fame beckoned.

At the time of our meeting, his fledgling talent was being fostered on the London stage, although since then he has become celebrated for his virtuoso performances in Europe and America. He had gained a little weight since I had last seen him, which seemed entirely in accord with the munificence of his warm and open character.

"Well, well, Sherlock Holmes as I live and breathe," he enthused, pumping my hand with cordial heartiness. "How are you, my dear chap?"

"Well enough," said I. "And you, Merrivale?"

He gave a light shrug. "One gets by. I have a bed and enough to fill my belly, that is enough for me. No doubt the pater would disapprove, but for myself I am content. As long as I have my audience, I would be happy with the pavement for my pillow."

Sincerity shone from his generous features at this sentiment and I saw that for him the decision had been the right one. No doubt he could have been living a more comfortable existence as a provincial solicitor, but the joy I saw in him now would have forever eluded him.

"As it happens," he went on, "I must confess that this meeting isn't entirely by chance. I had set out in the hope of finding you. Spotty Matthews told me you had moved down to London and he gave me your address, although the landlady was most unhelpful. Anyway," said he, waving these unnecessary details aside; "I find I am in need of your assistance."

"Indeed? How so?"

"Well, I was impressed by the way you resolved that case of theft when we were at college – you remember, where you proved a thieving magpie was the culprit?"

I nodded. The deduction had been elementary, given the nature of the items stolen, the presence of the tree and the students' habit of leaving their trinkets on the table by the open window.

"And now you have a similar problem?" I inquired.

"Not quite," said he soberly. "It's murder, I'm sure of it!"

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_Continued in Chapter Two!_

_Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!_


	3. Chapter Two

_**The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python**_

**Chapter Two**

Following on the heels of this most extraordinary of revelations, we retired to a coffee house opposite the British Museum to escape the excesses of the weather in order for Merrivale to continue his tale. He was gracious enough to treat us both to afternoon tea and, thus fortified against the chill that had seeped into my bones, I sat back in my chair and listened with half-closed eyes.

"After I came to London," he explained, "I was down on my luck for a goodly time and fair wondering if I had made the right decision. I was on the cusp of giving up for good, but I determined to try my hand one last time. There was an advertisement for an audition for new acts at the Hoxton Hippodrome and I thought I could do no worse than go along. As it happened, Mr Brownlow, the manager of the theatre, was very impressed and hired me on the spot. Since then I've had regular employment and the wage is fair enough."

He hesitated and took a sip of his coffee.

"I've been there three years now, which I feel is long enough, especially as I've just been offered a position with a more prestigious company with all the chances of greater success that would bring."

"And now Mr Brownlow doesn't want you to leave?" I ventured.

"Oh, no, he's happy enough about it. I have to work off two months' notice and then I'm free to go. It's a perfectly amicable parting of the ways. However…"

Again came the ominous pause, during which he took the opportunity to cram the remainder of his cake into his mouth.

"Yes?" I prompted.

His eyes darted from side to side in the manner of one nervous of being overheard.

"Well, the last fellow who announced he was leaving never made it out alive. He was found dead."

"How did he die?"

"It was all very peculiar," said he. "His stage name was Presto the Prestidigitator, although his real name was Albert Crump. He was a sleight of hand man; you know, a magician. He did things with cards and doves and handkerchiefs."

"Yes, I am familiar with the type of act."

"I never thought he was particularly good, although they do say when he was younger his legerdemain was outstanding. In my opinion, he liked the drink and the ladies a little too much, if you see what I mean."

I nodded and bade him continue.

"Well, Mr Brownlow had had words with him about the state in which he was performing, and then quite out of the blue Crump announced he had been offered a place elsewhere with a company, as he said, "who would better appreciate his talents". I think it's fair to say we were all glad to see him go. He was becoming a liability and reflecting badly on the rest of us. One night, his trousers fell down on stage and all his cards came fluttering out. His dove got away too and we had the devil of a job to catch the thing. I will say this for him though – that was the best round of applause he ever got."

"That doesn't say much for the rest of his act," I remarked. "Yet despite this, according to your belief, someone was keen enough to prevent Mr Crump's leaving by murdering him? That seems a little extreme."

Merrivale shook his head vigorously. "I don't say it was murder."

"But you distinctly said –"

"And I don't say it wasn't either," he went on hurriedly. "Everyone said it was an accident, but I thought it was dashed strange."

"Why don't you tell me about it?" I urged, sensing that he was working himself up into something of a frenzy, which was beginning to attract the attention of the other patrons.

Merrivale's face assumed the expression of a deeply-troubled man and he lowered his impressive voice several pitches as if sharing some dark confidence.

"It was Evie," he whispered.

"His wife?"

"No, his python. That's what he called her, Evie."

"Ah, yes, very droll. Do go on."

"The snake was part of his act. He would produce it out of an empty box, but how he ever got it in, I'll never know. It was a fine specimen too, good markings and some sixteen feet long. Well, a week before he was due to leave, we found him in his dressing room with the snake coiled around him, his ribs caved in and his neck broken."

"Extraordinary! And of course quite absurd. Despite the popular belief that pythons crush their prey, death is in fact caused by asphyxiation during the process of constriction."

"Is that so?" said Merrivale unhappily. "I didn't know that. I only thought it was odd because Evie wasn't aggressive like they said."

"I take it then that the police subscribed to the notion that the snake was to blame?"

"They did indeed. It was generally agreed that it was a tragic accident, that Crump must have riled the snake and it turned on him. But it was always a perfectly docile creature whenever I saw it. It wouldn't even eat the theatre's rats."

"And thus your suspicions were raised, justifiably so," I said thoughtfully. "Did you put your concerns to the police?"

"I tried, but they didn't seem interested. As far as they were concerned, they had their culprit and were content to leave it at that."

"These gentleman must be uncommonly dull-witted and on that basis alone surely worth the effort of interest. I dare say our murderer was relying on that fact."

Merrivale's features screwed into an anxious frown. "You do believe it was murder then?"

"What else? Murder made to look like an accident. Ah, but we are one step ahead of him thanks to our greater knowledge of the python and its habits."

"I'm sorry to hear you say that," said Merrivale. "You do see why I'm concerned?"

"Indeed. However, it may be that the two events are unrelated. Someone may have borne Crump a personal grudge that had nothing to do with his leaving."

"That's true enough and I'd be willing to accept it, but…"

"Yes?"

"He's not the only one to meet with a fatal accident. There have been others."

I cocked an eyebrow at him. This was becoming more interesting by the second.

"Since I've been at the theatre, there have been four so-called accidents. First, there was Kardinski, the escapologist. It seems he had been practising a new act alone after hours at the theatre where he was locked in a barrel with live crabs and then suspended in a vat of water. Well, when he was found the next morning, he had drowned and the crabs had been busy. It was quite horrific."

"Dear me," said I. "Was he about to leave too?"

Merrivale's frown deepened. "No, I don't think he was. I had only been with the company a week at the time, although I did hear there was some trouble about a woman. Not that I take much notice of gossip."

"That is where you err," said I. "As malicious as it invariably is, there is, as the old saying goes, no smoke without fire. What of the other deaths?"

"There was an incident with the Flying Matlocks, where the younger Matlock fell to his death through a hole in their safety net. Then there was Jumping Jack Price, whose act involved juggling knives and tumbling. He was found with his throat cut, apparently where one of his knives had slipped. And finally, The Amazing Electric Man – oh, he did tricks with static electricity – well, it was said he went up in smoke after standing in a puddle of water. Well, Holmes, what do you think?"

I took a moment to consider the problem before I answered. Certainly, the case presented possibilities. Crump's death was clearly suspicious, while the others could be ascribed to misfortune. Safety nets have been known to break before, the juggler might have been unusually careless, the escapologist might have simply been inept and, as for The Amazing Electric Man, stranger things have happened.

Either then the Hoxton Hippodrome was an unhealthy place to work or a clever murderer was on the prowl, covering up his evil deeds by making them appear as accidents. If not for Merrivale's concerns about the death of the prestidigitator, then that too would have been dismissed as yet another accident.

"It is a most singular business," I said at last.

"Singular?" said he anxiously. "Is that good or bad? Please, Holmes, in memory of our old ties, I beg you not to abandon me. I have no wish to be found dead in a barrel of crabs with my throat cut."

"That was furthest from my mind, Merrivale. Rest assured, I will look into this affair for you."

"Thank heavens!" said he effusively. "I knew you wouldn't let me down, old friend. You must come back to the theatre with me today. If we leave now, we can be there before five and you can meet Mr Brownlow before he goes on his rounds."

Experience teaches one that those who feel the need to overstate the importance of a former acquaintance invariably never enjoyed those terms in the first instance and do so simply because they want something and lack other means of acquiring it. Only when one has known true friendship that gives everything and asks nothing in return are then the drudging deficiencies so greatly revealed in the poor substitutes one had been willing to accept before.

Had I been wiser at the time, I might not have gone along with Merrivale quite so readily that afternoon and thus saved myself a good deal of time and mortification in the process. As it was, I was happy in my ignorance to accept his offer and we set out for the Hoxton Hippodrome without delay.

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_Continued in Chapter Three!_

_Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!_


	4. Chapter Three

_**The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python**_

**Chapter Three**

We arrived at the Hoxton Hippodrome well before the appointed hour to find the place in darkness. Granted, I was not seeing the theatre at its best, but my first impressions did not immediately suggest that this was the ideal place from which Merrivale hoped to launch a successful career.

The building itself was somewhat shabby in its exterior presentation, although a fire some fifteen years after my visit would give the old theatre an excuse to rise phoenix-like from the ruins and delight its later patrons with a bold classical frontage. For the present, the main door was locked and heavily barred, so that our way lead down a filth-strewn alley, barely wide enough for a man to pass, pressed as it was by the tenements at its other side.

Merrivale made much of banging at the stage door and apologising for the time it took to gain a reply, explaining that the gentlemen responsible for admitting us was somewhat aged and rather deaf. Eventually, the door did open, not before I had seen several large rats skip over my feet, and we stepped into a dimly-lit interior.

The stage door keeper, a hunched elderly man introduced to me as Old George, had a grimy handkerchief in one hand, a gnarled walking cane in the other, and an expression of wary interest on his face. Merrivale accounted for my presence as an old friend and asked for the whereabouts of Mr Brownlow. Old George made a vague gesture that was meant to convey some meaning to us and shuffled back to his room, located to the left of the stage door.

As it happened, Merrivale had read more into the old fellow's answer than had I. He set off down a flight of steps and into a door-lined corridor, the walls of which were thickly encrusted with peeling paint in an unpleasant shade of drab yellow.

Stopping at one door, he knocked upon it and called out the theatre manager's name. Receiving no answer, he proceeded in this fashion from one door to another until a gruff voice answered from within, demanding to know what we wanted.

The briefest of explanations was met with an annoyed grunt. "Very well," came the disembodied voice. "I'll be out in a minute. Tell the new boy to wait."

" 'New boy'," I echoed. "Is he referring to me by any chance?"

Merrivale shot a glance at me, swallowing heavily and his face the very picture of apprehension at my reaction.

"Let me explain," said he.

"Yes, I think you should."

"You don't know what these people are like, Holmes. It's a very closed world. If you aren't part of it, then they aren't going to let you into their confidence. They wouldn't even speak to the police when they were here. I thought if I got you a position here, you might be more accepted and they would talk to you."

"It may have escaped your notice, Merrivale, but I am no singer or an artiste with a speciality act. What on earth did you think I was going to do?"

His features flushed with embarrassment. "There's that trick you used to do at college, where you guessed people's livelihood just by looking at them."

I sighed with irritation. "That is neither a trick nor mere guesswork. It is the logical culmination of a train of reasoning based on the systematic gathering of distinguishing indications as to a person's character and occupation."

Merrivale had never been the brightest student and from the glazed expression that came to his eyes, I saw that my explanation had passed him by.

"Whatever it is, it's mighty clever," said he. "Just the sort of thing the audience likes."

"Do you have the temerity to suggest that I prostitute my faculty for observation and deduction for the mere amusement of a baying music hall mob?"

"It is in a good cause," he wheedled. "And Mr Brownlow will pay you."

"If I find an adequate solution to the business?"

"No, for your performances. No one must know the real reason why you're here."

"Merrivale," I said wearily. "Surely you must see how preposterous is this notion of yours?"

I had turned to go, but he clutched desperately at my arm.

"Look here, old fellow, I know I got you here under false pretences, but I'm in fear of my very existence. You can't abandon me now."

"Yes, I can, quite easily, in fact."

"It seems to me that we can help each other. I need your brains and you need money."

I shrugged his hand away. "I am quite able to shift for myself in that respect."

Merrivale grinned. "That's not what your landlady said. If you stay and help me, at least you'll have a roof over your head."

I should have left there and then; it was only the undeniable truth of Merrivale's assertion that made me hesitate. As absurd as his proposition seemed, it would solve two problems at one stroke, namely the immediate question of my homelessness and the acquisition of a little capital to meet my debts.

In the event, it was too late for flight, for the door of the dressing room burst open and a disgruntled Mr Tobias Brownlow appeared, looking much flustered as he attempted to stuff the remainder of his shirt into his trousers. A bluff, hearty Yorkshireman of some five and sixty, he was a wider at the girth than Merrivale and not much taller. His face and nose were ruddy, suggesting a frequent acquaintance with alcohol, and his dress was somewhat loud and lacking in that refinement found in the better theatrical establishments.

"Well, lad, who are you then?" said he, glaring in my direction.

"This is my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes," said Merrivale. "He's a mentalist."

"Is he indeed?" said Mr Brownlow, thrusting his brawny hands onto his hips. "The last one we had of them had trouble reading th'paper let alone anyone's mind. Well, lad, are you any good?"

"Oh, he's exceptional, Mr Brownlow."

"Doesn't he speak for himself? Cat got your tongue, lad?"

My better judgement was telling me to escape while I had still had the chance. Common sense, however, spoke all the louder of the bitterness of the evening and of the lecture I could expect from my brother if I was reduced to begging from him yet again for food and board. I told myself that if I could not tolerate a little suffering for my art over the next few days, then I did not deserve to succeed in my chosen profession.

"Yes, it is quite as my friend says," I replied, swallowing my pride.

Mr Brownlow pursed his lips and considered my appearance. "Well, I say this for you, lad, you aren't much to look at. You're skin and bone. Still, it's what up here that counts," he said, tapping the side of his head. "Tell you what – if you can read my mind, you've got a job."

He stood square before me, head slightly tilted so that he looked down the length of his lumpy nose at me with a most haughty air. I suspected that he thought I was likely to fail; however, a reading of the man was elementary in the extreme.

"If I might be blunt, sir," said I, "it might be advisable that you change your coat before returning home, lest you give your present wife any further reason to discount you from her favours."

Greater experience has taught me to exercise a good deal more tact when dealing with problems of a personal nature. However, at the time, I will own that my intention was to impress in the most startling of fashions.

That I had succeeded was firmly etched into the fleshy features of Mr Brownlow's horrified face. For several minutes he stared at me, his mouth hanging open in a most unbecoming manner and his cheeks flushed to the same colour as his puce cravat.

"What the deuce would make you say that?" he stammered.

"Your shoes, sir. The leather is of exceptional quality, yet repeated neglect has left them somewhat worse for wear. I have yet to come across a devoted wife who would allow her husband to leave the house in such a lamentable state. The initial cause of the estrangement, which I perceive is longstanding, I should imagine was the regard you continue to bear your late wife, for few women are able to compete favourably with a cherished memory."

"How the devil –"

"The wedding ring you wear so prominently on your watch chain, Mr Brownlow. I note it is a lady's ring and of finer gold than you one you currently wear. Therefore, your first marriage was held in greater regard than your present, from which you have sought comfort in the arms of another and whose perfume I detect still on your clothing. Hence my cautionary remark about returning to your marital home in that particular coat."

"Why, you cheeky young devil," Mr Brownlow blustered. "I'll have you horsewhipped for spreading such lies! It's libel is what it is."

"Slander, actually," remarked Merrivale.

"Only if it is untrue," said I. "Perhaps the young lady would care to confirm it?"

"What young lady?"

I indicated the fresh-faced woman, who was peering with considerable interest around the dressing room door. Mr Brownlow abruptly slammed the door and his colour muted to a delicate shade of pink.

"Well, now, young man," said he, gruffly clearing his throat. "I dare say there's some truth in what you claim. We'll not speak of this again – least said, soonest mended, especially as now you've explained it, I see there's nothing more sinister in it than a good set of eyes."

"_Omne ignotum pro magnificio_," quipped Merrivale. "See, I did learn something at college."

"How true," said I. "I must remember that."

"You'll do well enough if you mind to keep a decent tongue in your head," Mr Brownlow continued. "You'll get one pound a week in pay and free time on Sunday afternoon. Those are my terms: take 'em or leave 'em."

"I'll take them."

"Fair enough. You can start tonight. Go see Mr Huxtable, the stage manager, about a decent set of clothes and tell Old George you'll be needing a dressing room. Oh, and you'll need a stage name."

"My own won't suffice?"

Mr Brownlow grimaced. "No, no, no, it won't do at all. Now, let's see. Ah, yes, The Magnificent Memphisto, that's what we'll call you. Sounds exotic does that, and the last mentalist liked it well enough. The audience likes continuity, makes 'em feel comfortable with the act, you see. Well, if you'll excuse me."

With as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances, Mr Brownlow set off down the corridor at a trot. Merrivale took my hand and shook it warmly.

"Welcome to the company, Holmes," said he. "I can't tell you how much happier I feel now you're here."

I only wished I could have reciprocated that sentiment. Already I was starting to think I had made the gravest mistake of all my four and twenty years.

* * *

_Take a guess as to what Holmes is going to have to do next. Ha-ha, it promises to be a lot of fun!_

_So roll up, roll up, get your seats for Chapter Four!_

_Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!_


	5. Chapter Four

_**The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python**_

**Chapter Four**

Several hours later found me standing in the wings of the stage, watching a giggling gaggle of chorus girls perform a riotous dance in their bathing costumes that teetered on the incautious side of decency. The Twickenham Twinkles, or some such ludicrous name that Mr Brownlow had thought up for them, seemed to be deriving as much enjoyment from the spectacle as the audience, whose hoots and claps made them dance the harder and giggle ever louder.

Needless to say, I still had my doubts about the venture. The case was intriguing to be sure, but when I had set my foot upon the path of my career, I had never envisaged my having to parade before an inebriated audience dressed in a frock coat two sizes too large, a ludicrous cape with upturned collar and red silk lining, a top hat that only my ears prevented from falling over my eyes and a false beard and waxed moustache. My only consolation was that in such attire I was unlikely to be recognised should this debacle ever return to haunt me in years to come.

So far, I had been unable to pursue my enquiries to any great degree. I had hoped to glean some information from Mr Alfred Huxtable, the stage manager and Master of Ceremonies, but when I had found him he had seemed vague and preoccupied like a person waking from a deep sleep. It had taken most of my time explaining that I had been sent to him for a costume before he was galvanised into action. That his attention was not on the task was evident from my current appearance, and I had soon discovered the reason for his distraction was the rather large hip-flask from which he was wont to take a sip when he thought no one was looking.

The result of this I was convinced would be an intoxicated stupor, and thus I was mildly surprised when Mr Huxtable strode onto the stage with a great deal of confidence and a hearty swagger. Only when he stumbled into the wings did he betray any sign of his indulgence, in declaring that his head was thumping and that he was in dire need of a drink. I neglected to comment that that was probably the last thing he needed and let him go his way.

Having observed the better part of the acts from my vantage point, I could quite see why Mr Huxtable had taken to drink to get him through the evening. Merrivale stood out amidst a sea of mediocrity and I was interested to hear that his vocal range had increased, so that he appeared to be drawing the lowest notes imaginable seemingly from his boots.

The other singers in the company were merely adequate in comparison and that was probably the kindest thing that could be said about them. Wrong notes abounded, either by indifference or ineptitude, and one fellow forgot the lyrics halfway through a bawdy song about a cuckolded husband. He was met with boos and jeers from the audience, with whom I had much sympathy. After all, one does not expect much of voice in a comic song, but one does expect the words.

The next singer had gone someway to assuaging their disappointment, in the shape of a comely young lady, known somewhat ambitiously as Ethel Partridge, the Camden Canary, who performed what was probably the most suggestive interpretation of Robert Herrick's _Cherry Ripe_ I have ever heard. Blowing the audience a kiss at the end of the lyrics, "Where my Julia's lips do smile", was possibly overstating the obvious; however, judging from the howls of approval that rose up from certain gentlemen, I gathered that I was in the minority in that opinion.

Whatever their shortcomings, the singers did at least prove more consistent than the varied speciality acts. Mr and Mrs Webber, introduced as the Strong Man and his equally Strong Wife from Stoke Poges, delighted with the sort of act that mainly involved picking up large and heavy objects much to the awe of the audience. It culminated in Mrs Webber hoisting her husband above her head to a round of applause, whereupon she looked in my direction, caught my eye and winked.

Less impressive was Mr Bert Saltash and Edwin the Almost Human Canine. Admittedly, the dog was rather good; Mr Saltash proved to be the weaker of the act. After Edwin had completed jumps through hoops and dancing on his back legs, Mr Saltash set him mathematical conundrums, at which Edwin would bark the solution.

The only problem was that Mr Saltash's mental capacity lapsed far behind that of the dog. When Edwin had issued one bark for the solution of six plus six plus one minus twelve, it then took Mr Saltash an unconscionable amount of time to work it out for himself and then declare that the dog was in fact correct. By that time, the audience had lost interest, like Edwin, who I last saw cocking his leg against the stage curtains.

Overall, it did not bode well for my own performance. The Twickenham Twinkles had at least got the audience back into a better humour, which, as I was to be the next act, I hoped would go some way to ensuring a decent reception. Merrivale had not helped matters. After he had left the stage, he had inquired whether I was feeling quite well.

"Naturally," I had said. "Why ever would I not?"

"Oh, there's some people who get nerves before going on stage," said he.

"I am perfectly calm," I had assured him. "I am confident in my abilities."

He had cast me a dubious look. "You're not worried then about all those people looking at you? I always think they're waiting for me to make a mistake. Still, everyone is different."

And with that, he had sown the seeds of doubt. My stomach was in turmoil and I was tormented by moustache that had not the slightest intention of remaining on my upper lip. As the music ended and the girls finished with a flourish, the moustache once again peeled away and fluttered into the shadows. I stooped to retrieve it and immediately received what was unmistakably a hard slap to my rear. I leapt up to find the chorus girls hurrying past me, giggling all the while and giving me mischievous winks and waves. I made a mental note to keep my back to the wall for future performances and stuffed the recalcitrant moustache into my pocket.

Mr Huxtable stumbled past me, breathing fumes of which the resident fire-eater would have been proud, and announced me as 'The Munificent Memphino', a title which made no sense at all. The moment had come and yet I could not move from the spot. I had stood there so long I had taken root. The thought of all those people, a sea of faces, ready and willing to express their disproval or approbation like the mob at a gladiatorial combat, did something to my insides that made me feel quite ill.

It was madness; not only that, but it was professional suicide. No one would ever take me seriously again. I would have to abandon my fledgling plans to carve a unique career and bury myself instead in some tedious government department, spending the rest of my days whittling away my intelligence on the petty concerns of some or other minister. It was a horrific image, and one that had me backing away from the proximity of the stage as fast as I could.

Then, just as swiftly, a hand landed in the middle of my back and gave me a hearty thrust forward. I was propelled from the safety of the wings out onto the stage with such ferocity that my accursed hat toppled clean over my eyes. By the time I adjusted my attire, I was alone in the centre of the stage. On either side, barely visible in the darkness, I caught glimpses of other members of the company, watching me anxiously, and among them Merrivale, making encouraging and impatient gestures. I gritted my teeth and made a silent promise that if the madman stalking the theatre did not throttle him, then I surely would.

That would have to wait, however. For now, the audience – and how very many faces were out there! – was looking at me expectantly in anticipation of some amazing pronouncement. All those eyes, fixed on me, waiting, as Merrivale had said, for me to make a mistake. If I was to emerge from this ordeal with any pride left at all, I knew I had to make a good account of myself.

That was easier said than done, for my tongue was as dry as piece of leather and the ability to string together a coherent sentence of words seemed to have fled me altogether. Nevertheless, I took a step nearer the stage lights and began.

"Good evening, ladies and er…"

"Gentleman," someone hissed from the wings.

"Yes, thank you," I mumbled. "Well, I am the Magnificent Memphisto."

"That's not what the other old duffer said," came a voice from the audience.

"Nevertheless," I countered; "that is who I am, or should be, or rather that's my name. And tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I will endeavour to read your minds."

"What? All of us at the same time?" came the same voice.

"What I need is a volunteer," I continued, trying to control the shake in my voice. "Would anyone care to stand up?"

As a direct appeal, it could have been somewhat better. The audience seemed unimpressed until, just as I was considering making a dash for it, one brave gentleman stood up.

"Thank you, sir," I said, truly grateful for his gesture. "Now, sir, I want you to think of your profession, and I will read your mind and tell you what it is."

"It won't hurt, will it?" he asked uncertainly.

"Not at all," I assured him. "Now, please, think."

The hammering of the blood in my ears was almost blocking out my capacity for reasonable thought. I was plagued by every sort of doubt and my judgement was dissolving like ice before fire.

What should have been elementary was proving near impossible. His black coat had a long white horse hair on the sleeve, but he could have picked that up anywhere. Then there was his suit, of medium quality, although he was in the habit of wearing leg pieces fastened under the knee with straps that had left an indentation on the fabric. His cheeks were weather-beaten or was that high colour due to drink and the warmth in the theatre?

Near impossible, but not absolute. Despite my nervousness, I could deduce only one occupation that fitted the gentleman's appearance. All it would take was a few words before I was faced with either ridicule or applause.

"Are you… are you the driver of a Hansom cab?" I asked.

He stared back at me, his gaze level. Next, to my consternation, he started to laugh.

"'Pon my word, however did you know that?" said he. "Yes, that is exactly what I am!"

Then it happened. It began with a single handclap that gained momentum as others joined in, until the ripple encompassed the whole auditorium and the sound of their applause rose up to the very ceiling. The great wave of approval and awe washed over me and left me with a glow of confidence that persisted long after I had ceased to bathe in their adulation.

It told me that I _could_ do this. It was what I had been doing all my life. It was as natural as breathing and the crowd loved me for it.

After that, it became easier. The next person to stand up was a woman, who I pronounced as being a laundress without hesitation. Then came another and another, until the people were open-mouthed at my perspicacity and all wondering how this apparent piece of trickery was achieved. I would have happily continued all evening had not Mr Huxtable staggered onto the stage intent on announcing the next act.

I left the stage to cheers and whistles, alive with conflicting emotions of feeling both buoyed by the experience and mildly disappointed that my time was at an end. In the wings, Merrivale was waiting for me and he grasped my hand warmly.

"Well done, old fellow, well done! I thought you were going to freeze, but you did it, Holmes, you truly did it!"

"Yes, I did, didn't I?" said I, somewhat breathlessly.

He studied my flushed face with amused curiosity. "And you enjoyed it, I think."

"Perhaps," I said, freeing myself from his grip. Whatever my current feelings, I had yet to entirely forgive his presumptuousness in dragging me into this situation in the first place.

"Then you'll stay?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes, Merrivale, I think I will."

"And you'll find the murderer?"

"That too, my friend. That too."

* * *

_Didn't he do well? Big round of applause for Mr Holmes please! _

_So on with the case in Chapter Five!_

_Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!_


	6. Chapter Five

_**The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python**_

**Chapter Five**

"So, how's it done?"

We had gathered, post-performance, on the stage to engage in what the other members described as a 'little stiffener' against the chill of night. With the audience gone, the auditorium seemed vast, the endless rows of chairs stretching away from the proscenium into infinite darkness. The roar of earlier and the press of eager faces that had given this space life and vigour had been replaced by brooding silence and irregular shadows that gave the place the air of a subterranean cavern.

In keeping with this atmosphere, we sat goblin-like on upturned crates and boxes, quaffing foaming beer from cracked mugs and mulling over the events of the evening. Naturally, my own turn had provoked considerable interest, mainly on how my apparent feats of mind-reading were achieved.

I had considered explaining the processes by which I arrived at my conclusions, but had decided against it. The only one present who seemed interested in anything I had to say was Edwin, the black and white sheepdog with the impressive capacity for solving mathematical problems. He currently sat at my side, his head on my knee and his large eyes staring up at me in a manner calculated to separate me from the piece of bread and cheese I had managed to rustle up for my dinner. I felt guilty enough to break him off a chunk of cheese, which he gobbled up without a second thought and resumed his vigil.

"It's a trick," I said with a resigned sigh, seeing I would be wasting my time on a lengthy lecture.

"Thought so," said Miss Partridge assuredly. "It ain't possible to read a person's mind, is it, Merry?"

There is something instructive to be gained from an observation of one's fellows outside of the environment in which they were first encountered. In Merrivale's case, I thought I would always picture him in his stiffly-starched chorister's robes, filling the college chapel with his deeply-resonating voice. Now I see him as he was on that night, with Miss Ethel Partridge on his knee, being addressed by a pet name, and with her arms around his neck and her fingers ruffling his hair. His face was deeply flushed, whether from embarrassment or mischief, I could not tell, and it was difficult to say which of them was enjoying themselves the most.

"It would be a special sort of man indeed who could read a woman's mind," said the ample Mrs Webber, licking her lips in a most curious manner as she stared at me.

"Give over," said her husband with a chuckle. "He said he could read minds, not work miracles."

"Well, I bet you don't know what I'm thinking of right now, Mr Holmes," said Miss Partridge impishly.

It did not take too much imagination, but nevertheless I declared myself at a loss. She laughed and promptly bestowed a kiss on Merrivale's forehead, proving that my suspicions had been correct after all.

"I mean," said she, "if we could really know what everyone was thinking, there'd be no end of trouble. Right, Mr Holmes?"

"No doubt," I said. "Even the most cynical of men would be shaken by what lies in the hearts of his fellow man."

"Cor blimey," slurred Mr Huxtable. "That's almost philo… pileosophic… right clever was that."

"About as clever as that get-up you put Mr Holmes in," said Miss Partridge reprovingly. "He looked liked he was wearing his big brother's cast offs. And that hat's too big un'all."

Mr Huxtable pulled an apologetic face. "It's all I could find, what with him being as skinny as a bean rake. Mr Crump liked his grub."

Merrivale almost choked on his drink.

"These are Crump's clothes?" said I with dismay. "Not the ones he died in, I hope."

"Bless you, lad, no. The police took them away with 'em. Probably kept 'em too." He sniffed with mild annoyance as though he had hoped to stake some prior claim on the late Mr Crump's attire. "You heard about his death then?"

"I heard something about it, yes."

"Horrible business," said Mr Saltash gloomily. "His python ate him."

Mr Huxtable tutted. "Now, now, Bert, you know that's not true. The snake killed him all right; broke him in half it did like a brittle old twig and he a man of fifteen stone and more."

"Great big thing it was too," said Miss Partridge. "And it had that mean look in its eye, just like a snake."

"That's because it _was_ a snake," said Merrivale lightly.

She gave him a playful thump. "You know what I mean, Merry. It looked at you in an evil way, like it wanted to eat you. And I'm sure it would have eaten Mr Crump if we hadn't found him, the way it was all curled round him like that. Mr Young had to bash its brains out before it'd let poor Mr Crump go."

Mr Oliver Young had been silent throughout our discussion to date and now he sat grinning broadly, clearly pleased with his role in this unhappy drama. As the resident knife-thrower, an act which he performed with his cowed and timid wife, Mrs Mabel Young, I had yet to see him without a blade in his hand. From what little I had been able to observe of the man, I had already noticed that most of the company were afraid of him and the irrational nature of his ferocious temper, which he used to bully and browbeat all who had the misfortune to come into contact with him.

"It put up a fight," said he, running his thumb along the edge of the throwing knife he held. "Still, a dead snake's not much a threat to anyone."

"It was a terrible thing to happen though," said Mrs Young. "Mr Crump wasn't much of a magician, but it was still a horrible way to go."

"Who asked you?" said her husband abruptly. "Shut your trap, woman, and only speak when you're spoken to."

Mrs Young visibly withered and tried to make herself as small and insignificant as humanly possible. The others averted their eyes and the silence began to grow distinctly uncomfortable.

"Was it usual for Mr Crump to remain in the theatre to practise after hours?" I asked. "I understand that's when the accident happened."

"What's it to you?" snarled Mr Young, leaning forward to gesture at me with the tip of his knife. "What's with all these questions anyway? We don't like people who stick their noses where they don't belong."

It has always been a conviction of mine never to back down before a bully. I felt the eyes of the others on me and heard Merrivale's worried little cough of warning, and knew I had to take a stand. My sense of pride and honour would permit nothing less.

"I merely asked because," said I, "for being new to the company, I wondered it if was permissible to remain after the theatre was closed."

"Oh, you 'merely' asked, did you?" sneered Mr Young. "How very la-di-dah of you, Mr Holmes. We've got a proper little gent here, lads."

"That must be something of a novelty for you, Mr Young," I retorted.

The smile fell from his face. "You've got a cocky mouth on you, kid. You wanna be careful someone don't think about shutting it for you, permanently."

With that, he rose, kicking his crate across the stage as he did so, and strode away into the wings.

"He's had a bad evening," Mrs Young said apologetically, rising uncertainly and glancing after her husband. "He's lost one of his stage knives and he's superstitious about things like that. Well, good night. Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes."

She scurried away after her husband and in no little time I could hear his angry voice rising from the bowels of the theatre, shouting something cruel and unintelligible. The unsavoury episode had served to bring the light-hearted mood of the gathering to an end and the others were making moves to depart.

"I shouldn't worry too much about him," said Mr Huxtable. "He's all talk is Mr Young."

"Talk and fists," I murmured, having noted the way Mrs Young had kept one arm tightly pressed to her side for most of the evening.

"And as to staying behind, son, no one minds, although once you leave, you'll not be able to get back in, because Mr Brownlow has the only set of keys and the door locks behind you. Mind, if you do stay, on your head be it. There's been some funny accidents around here of late."

He glanced about and gave an involuntary shiver.

"I wouldn't stay here on me own, not for a million pounds. There's something not right about this place."

"You're not frightening Mr Holmes with ghost tales, are you, Mr Huxtable?" said Mr Stanley Smith, the memory-troubled singer of comic songs.

"Just telling him about the accidents, Stan," said the stage manager gruffly. "Best forearmed and forewarned."

"Have you told him about that contortionist, billed as the Amazing Man of Rubber?"

"What happened to him?" I asked.

"He perished!"

It took me a second or two to register why everyone had started laughing at this comment and I was compelled to congratulate Mr Smith on the keenness of his wit, if not his poor taste.

With this warning in mind, however, I did not relish spending the night in the theatre. Given that it had started snowing again, I decided that I would take the risk and brave whatever ghost or force of ill-fortune roamed the building. Not that I expect to meet one; I had already decided that the cause of the Hoxton Hippodrome's accidents had a more physical presence. At least Merrivale had the decency to wish me a comfortable night's sleep, although he was clearly not moved enough by my plight to offer to put me up in his lodgings.

With the others departed and the theatre in darkness, I buried myself in what was extravagantly called my dressing room, but was little than a large cupboard with room enough for a bed and table and not much else. I donned as many clothes as I could find and wrapped the thin blanket around me in an attempt to keep out the chill.

I managed to snatch a few hours sleep before I awoke in the early hours, stiff from the cold and fairly shivering. Remembering the stove I had noticed the stage door keeper using when on duty, I struggled to my feet and set out in search of a little warmth.

My route took me across the darkened stage and, with the remnants of sleep in my mind and the numbing chill of my surroundings, I will admit to being inattentive and sluggish. One minute I was ambling across the boards, the next I was flat on my back, having skidded on something on the floor.

Closer inspection revealed a large puddle of some dark viscous fluid that had seeped under the curtains and had started to stain the red velvet fabric. My first thought was that it was beer spilt from earlier, although why it should still be wet all these hours later I could not say.

Intrigued, I pulled back the curtains and found the body of Mr Young, a throwing knife embedded in his left eye up to the hilt and a great pool of blood beneath his head.

* * *

_Aaargh! Another accident? I don't think so, do you? Somebody send for the police!_

_Let's see what they have to say in Chapter Six!_

_Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!_


	7. Chapter Six

_**The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python**_

**Chapter Six**

A few hours later found me seated on the stage, watching the official forces of law and order conduct what was possibly the most inept investigation it has ever been my misfortune to witness. There was a good deal of blundering about and tracking the victim's blood across the stage, numerous inquiries as to whether anyone had put the kettle on for 'a nice cuppa' and much head-shaking about it being a 'ghastly accident'.

For myself, I must admit that I had been unsettled by the whole business. Finding one's first murder victim, much I should imagine like experiencing one's first kiss, is liable to remain in the memory long after the event itself. Since then in the course of my career, I have seen many dead bodies in various states, but none has imprinted itself so clearly on my mind as the body of the deceased Mr Young.

That first sight, the first smell and the feel of another man's blood on your hands rouses a mass of emotions. Disgust, horror, revulsion, fear – with hindsight, I can separate them and view them with equanimity, but at the time I was shaken to the core. It had been all I could do to remember to put a wedge under the stage door as I fled into the cold night to find a constable. The stolid policeman with whom I had returned had gone quite pale at the sight and had promptly vomited over the corpse. I knew then that the investigation into Mr Young's death was likely to fall far short of professional standards.

As it was, little could be done in the present instance until one of their superiors came and gave his judgement on the business. Mr Brownlow had been sent for, and in his absence Old George had been roused from his bed to oversee the business of clearing up the mess. A young lad was busy washing blood from the stage curtains and I was sitting with a cup in my hand and a blanket around my shoulders, waiting for someone with a little sense to appear and take charge of this charade.

What I got was a dark-eyed, wiry little man with a rat-like face and sallow countenance in a suit and overcoat so sharp and new that I fancied I could hear it creaking as he walked. Thus began what was to prove to be a long and mostly affable relationship with Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.

"Well, well, what have we here?" said he, staring down at the corpse with no small measure of distaste in his expression.

"He's dead, Inspector," stated the elder of the constables.

"I can see that for myself, can't I?" snapped Lestrade. "How did it happen, that's the question."

"He stabbed himself, sir."

"Through the eye? Is that how suicides usually dispatch themselves, do you think, constable?"

"Well," said the constable, "it looked to us like he was practising with those knives of his and he must have thrown one a bit funny and it caught him in the eye."

"Ah, yes, quite so," mused Lestrade. He jabbed the stiffening corpse with his toe. "Not happened too long ago, I'd say. Who found the body?"

I had listened to this conversation to the point of exasperation and found I could contain my frustration no longer. The mention of my name gave me reason enough to interrupt the proceedings and I made my presence known.

"And who might you be?" said Lestrade, looking me up and down.

"My name is Mr Sherlock Holmes, but that is immaterial, Inspector."

He sniffed self-importantly. "I'll decide what's important or not, thank you, sir. Now, this lot tell me you found this poor chap."

"Mr Young."

"Yes, quite so. May I ask what you were doing here so late at night, Mr Holmes?"

It occurred to me that admitting I was effectively homeless, penniless and lacking a good reason for my presence in the theatre was probably not the best way to gain the Inspector's attention. To my eye, Lestrade appeared sharp of wits, officious and hungry for greater promotion. Unless I trod very carefully, I was likely to implicate myself for a hanging offence.

"I was rehearsing my act in my dressing room and I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, I found Mr Young."

"Dead?"

"Of course dead, Inspector."

"I see," said Lestrade. "And what is it you do, Mr Holmes?"

I sighed. This revelation was likely to do me no favours at all.

"I read minds."

He let out an impromptu laugh. "Would you care to read my mind, sir?"

This was fast becoming the usual response and I was quite ready for him. "Yes, Inspector. You are thinking of writing this business off as an accident, whereas in fact it is anything but. This man was murdered."

Lestrade seemed quite taken aback. "Well, now, that's a very serious charge, Mr Holmes."

"So they tell me, Inspector."

"Now, now, sir, I understand you're a bit upset, but it wouldn't do if we all went around imagining murders every time we found a dead body, would it?"

"I don't say that every corpse is that of a murder victim, but I do say this one is!"

Lestrade gave me a dubious look. "Have you been drinking, Mr Holmes? Quite understandable under the circumstances."

"No, I most certainly have not! I have, however, stumbled across a murdered man and found that no person cares one jot as to how this fellow met his end. You've not been doing this job very long, have you, Inspector?"

Lestrade puffed up his chest and I could see that I had riled his pride into action.

"Quite long enough, young man," said he. "As it happens, I got my promotion to Inspector last week."

"And you will go far no doubt if apply a little logical reasoning to the cases you handle. Look at the knife. How many 'accidents' have you seen where the weapon is embedded in the body all the way up to the hilt?"

Lestrade spared the corpse a fleeting glance before quickly averting his gaze. "That is a little unusual, I'll grant you. It's a queer way of killing a man though. Whoever it was, the fellow must have been tall to stab him in the eye. Why, this chap is nearly six foot."

"Not if he had been rendered unconscious first. You notice there are no signs of a struggle on the wrists, hands or face."

I knelt beside the body and tried to quell the overwhelming sense of disgust at what I would have to do in order to prove my point. Taking a deep breath, I lifted Mr Young's head and probed through the bloodied, matted hair until I found what felt unmistakeable like a contusion at the base of the skull.

"Here, Inspector, there's a lump where he was hit. Once he was down on the ground, the murderer took up the knife and stabbed him through the eye."

Someone handed me a rag and I rose to my feet as I wiped the blood from my hands.

"Well, sir," said Lestrade, looking visibly shaken. "It looks like you were right after all. Foul play it is. The question is then who had a reason for wishing this gentleman dead?"

"Many people I should imagine, Inspector," said I. "He was brute and a bully. He was hard to like."

Lestrade cocked an eyebrow at me. "You didn't get on with Mr Young then?"

"I hardly knew the fellow. I'm new to the company. I joined only yesterday."

"Ah," said he, looking somewhat deflated. "But you _were_ here alone with the victim. There was no one else in the building?"

"Only the murderer, Inspector. And, no, I didn't see him either."

"Where were you then, sir, that you appear to missed all the action?"

"As I have already said, I was in my dressing room the whole time. That is why I was not aware Mr Young had stayed behind."

"And you were rehearsing?"

"Quite so, Inspector."

"Any witnesses to that, Mr Holmes?"

"Do I need any?" I retorted.

Lestrade considered. "Well, it might be said that our list of possible suspects is quite a short one."

"And my name is on the top? Inspector, I am hardly likely to have committed the crime, alerted the constable and then proceeded to explain to you exactly how I did it, am I?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised, sir. We come across all sorts in this game. I could tell you things that would make your hair stand on end. Er, you won't be going on any long journeys, will you, Mr Holmes?"

"No," I said wearily. "I'll be here."

"Just here? Don't you have a home, sir?"

I would learn in time to be wary of Lestrade's propensity to latch onto the merest detail and follow it as tenaciously as any terrier, but for the moment, I had no choice but to give him the address of my rooms in Montague Street. What tale the landlady would spin for him if he went along to check the facts, heaven only knew.

What was blatantly obvious, however, was that if I wished to avoid being hauled before the local magistrate on a charge of having murdered Mr Young, I was going to have to do my utmost to discover the real culprit. That was - and it was a chilling thought - if he did not have reason to find me first.

* * *

_Dear, oh dear, that didn't go well, did it?_

_Let's get on with the investigation in Chapter Seven!_

_Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!_


	8. Chapter Seven

_**The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python**_

**Chapter Seven**

Having served my case well and so far succeeded in implicating myself in the murder of Mr Oliver Young, I decided that there was some wisdom in making myself scarce until Lestrade had had the opportunity to interview the other members of the company and find himself more credible suspects.

Accordingly, I had left the stage and was heading for my dressing room when through the open side door came an agitated Merrivale, his eyes wide, his face pale and his chest heaving from the effort of his run.

"Dear heavens, Holmes!" he wheezed, clasping me by the upper arms. "I have never so pleased to see anyone in all my days. When I heard there had been another accident, and what with you here alone, I thought… bless us all, I thought it was you."

"As you can see, I am quite well. Thus far, I have stumbled across a corpse, aroused the suspicions of the constabulary and experienced a clumsy interrogation at the hands of Inspector Lestrade – and all before nine o'clock. Having got me in his mess, Merrivale, the least you can do is to buy me breakfast."

He graciously owned up to his responsibilities in the matter, and some little time later we were seated in a coffee house, calming our respective nerves with tea and toast. For myself, I could only manage a few bites, but the unsavoury episode seemed to have had the opposite effect on Merrivale, who devoured his own breakfast with great gusto before turning his greedy eye to mine. For a man who claimed to be shaken to the very core by the unpleasant business, evidently this turmoil had yet to reach the inner fortress of his appetite.

"I say we should leave forthwith," said he between mouthfuls. "It's bally foolishness to remain with a murderer on the loose. I don't care if Mr Brownlow sues me for not completing my notice. All the money in the world isn't worth a fig if you're not alive to spend it."

"I would advise such a course of action if we were dealing with some arbitrary killer," I observed, "but there's method in this fellow's madness, I'll wager."

"Method?" Merrivale fairly squawked. "He's a deranged lunatic and, if we're not careful, we could be next on his list. Are you having your ham and eggs, old fellow? Shame to let them go to waste."

Vexed by the irrelevance of his question, I pushed the plate over to him. "How can you eat at a time like this?"

"How can you not?" said he, ramming a slice of ham into his mouth. "I find the closer the brush with death, the hungrier I am. Just out of curiosity, why do you think he let you live?"

"I was wondering the same thing. Either he had no quarrel with me or he did not know I was there. If the former, then it shows a streak of audacity that puts this fellow beyond the mere commonplace. If the latter…"

I hesitated and Merrivale glanced anxiously up at me.

"Then he may come to thinking that you might have seen him," said he. "Heavens, Holmes, he could come after you."

This thought worried him sufficiently to wedge a whole slice of toast into his mouth. For my own part, I will not deny that that possibility had already occurred to me and had initially sent a thrill of terror down my spine. Rationalising the situation, however, it seemed to me that setting myself as a tethered goat in anticipation of greater prey might flush the murderer from his lair.

What I would do if the bait was taken and I found myself not in a position to capitalise on it was another consideration. This person was clever and resourceful. I could quite envisage myself ending up with my brains scattered beneath the proscenium arch, with the rest of the company surmising that my head had exploded as the result of another unfortunate accident. It was not a fate I cared for very much.

"I still say we should leave," said Merrivale, interrupting the flow of my thoughts.

"I cannot," I replied. "At present, I appear to be the Inspector's primary suspect. My departure now would only convince him of my guilt."

I did not continue with the thought that leaving would also not answer the question of the murderer's identity. Finding too that I had only one cigarette left to my name did not help matters. As novel and irksome as this need of working for one's living was proving to be, it was unavoidable, despite the inherent dangers. I resolved to see it through as my first real test of my ability to survive the life of a consulting detective. After all, one does not set one's foot on the path of my chosen profession only to be discouraged at the first sign of danger.

"It seems to me," I continued, "that our only course of action is to find this fellow before he kills again. Assuming the murderer of Young is the same as that of the prestidigitator, Albert Crump, we must therefore discover the common link between them."

"If there is one."

"Most assuredly there is. Tell me everything you know about the two men."

Merrivale considered unhappily. "I don't know what to say. Crump as you know was a magician and Young was the knife thrower. There's not much similarity there, except that they both worked at the Hoxton Hippodrome."

"Beyond that," I said tersely. "What about their private affairs?"

He brightened. "Ah, now with that I can help. They were both married. Well, you've met Mrs Young."

"There was a Mrs Crump?"

"Oh, yes. They were estranged, I believe on account of Mr Crump's various dalliances with other ladies."

"His wife was jealous?"

"Was she! Last year, she turned up at the theatre and caught him in_ flagrante delicto_ with one of the chorus girls. I've never heard language like it, Holmes. We had to pull her off him in the end, because she was beating him about the head with her purse. He said then that she'd be the death of him." His mouth fell open. "You don't think…?"

"No, I don't. Mrs Crump sounds more likely the sort of woman to strike out in a fit of anger at her wayward husband rather than taking the time to manufacture an ingenious cause of death of the most outrageous type."

"Someone did stab Mr Young."

"True. But what would be Mrs Crump's motive? Did she know him or any of the others?"

"Not that I'm aware of. That was the first and last time we ever saw her."

"Then we can discount her. What of Mrs Young?"

Merrivale's expression sobered. "A sorely tried woman, if you ask me. Her husband was a savage brute. No one, least of all her, will be sorry to see the back of him. He was a thoroughly unpleasant man."

"Yes, he was," said I gravely. "But someone murdered him, Merrivale, and it is our duty to bring that person to justice. Now, when you left last night, was Mrs Young with you?"

"We all left together. She said she had to have his dinner on the table before he got home or else there'd be hell to pay."

"And was Mr Young alive at that time?"

"Well, we assumed he was."

"None of you saw him?"

He took a moment to cast his mind back. "No, but we heard him. He was on stage, raging about his missing knife. Small wonder she wanted to leave him to it."

His eyes narrowed fractionally.

"Or are you thinking she had an accomplice who was pretending to be her husband? Or was she throwing her voice? We had a ventriloquist act here once. Perhaps she learnt how to do it and was deceiving us. It could have been Mrs Young all along."

I tried to envisage the frightened, cowed woman of earlier as a cold-blooded murderer, and shook my head.

"Undoubtedly she had motive for killing her husband, but what of the others?" said I. "Did she have any reason to wish Mr Crump dead?"

"Well, no. He was a bit of an old lecher, but he was harmless. The girls all knew how to handle him."

"In what way?"

Merrivale coloured slightly. "Nothing too sinister, just the odd squeeze here and there, or pinching someone's behind. But you expect that sort of thing backstage."

"I most certainly didn't," said I, thinking back to the liberty taken with me earlier. "I wish someone had warned me."

"You don't mean…?" Merrivale broke into a hearty laugh as he suddenly caught my meaning. "Yes, you want to watch those chorus girls. They can be a bit free with their hands. That is if Mrs Webber doesn't frighten them off first."

"Mrs Webber? The Strong Woman? What business is it of hers?"

"Oh, she takes an interest in new members," said he awkwardly. "Especially the men. Yes, she has quite a few male 'friends'."

"Does she? And what does Mr Webber say about that?"

Merrivale shrugged. "I don't think he knows. Well, you've seen him Holmes. No one in their right mind would want to get on his wrong side."

I thought back to Mr Crump's injuries and the broken ribs that had been wrongly attributed to the attack by his python. Considering the feats of strength I had seen Mr Webber perform on stage, I had to wonder how difficult it would be for him to crush an opponent to death.

"Was Mrs Webber 'friendly' with Mr Crump?" I asked.

"Definitely she was," said Merrivale assuredly. "She's friendly with most of the men in the company." He paused. "Come to think of it, she was on good terms with all the men who died. Oh, heavens."

I noted his distracted expression. "I do hope," said I, "that you haven't been so unwise as to commit an indiscretion?"

There was a decided blush on his generous cheeks that answered my question.

"A moment of madness, Holmes. She's a very persuasive woman and I didn't like to offend her. What should I do?"

"If I were you, I should watch my back. And avoid any further moments of madness with the wives of gentlemen who are infinitely stronger than you are."

The colour drained from his face. "You believe Mr Webber is the murderer?"

"Possibly. He does have a very good motive, wouldn't you say?"

"But he can't blame me, surely? I couldn't deny her. Holmes, you have to help me."

"I _am_ helping you," I said firmly. "I certainly do not approve of what you've done, but I don't see that it warrants your murder in some ghastly fashion. That is, if we assume that Mr Webber is responsible."

"How will we know?"

"By testing our theories, Merrivale, which we can only do at the theatre. Come, we should be getting back. That is, if you are quite finished with breakfast?"

Unsurprisingly, he declared himself quite full and we promptly left the coffee house. Back at the theatre, we found the place in uproar, with Inspector Lestrade at the centre of the fracas. In our absence, he had come to the erroneous assumption that the most obvious suspect was Mrs Young, working on the basis that most murderers of husbands and wives are usually their spouses.

As proud as any peacock, he was in the process of having the unfortunate woman handcuffed and hauled off to the police station for further questioning. Mrs Young was in floods of tears and vainly protesting her innocence, whilst the other members of the company were trying to support her claims in the strongest terms, all of which were falling on deaf ears.

I stepped into the fray and attempted to bring some order to chaos.

"Inspector Lestrade, whatever is the meaning of this?"

"Well, well, Mr Holmes," said he with smug satisfaction. "It seems you were barking up the right tree after all. In the end, I had to look no further than the wife."

"My dear sir," said I. "You could not be further from the truth."

Lestrade was clearly not happy with having his judgement called into question and he pulled himself up to his full height, which was still a good few inches below mine.

"Oh, really? I suppose you have some other theory?"

"Yes, I do. And very good grounds for believing in Mrs Young's innocence."

"Well, then, let's hear it, young man," said he. "I'll tell you here and now that she's got no alibi for the time of death, other than that she was at home alone."

"I have no reason to doubt that. What I do question is her ability to have committed the deed. You would agree, Inspector, that to hit a full-grown man in the prime of his life over the head to stun him and then drive a knife into his brain through his eye requires a degree of upper body strength?"

"Yes, I'd go along with that," he said.

"Then, Mrs Young, would you do us the courtesy of raising your arms above your head?"

She gave me the most perplexed of looks and I heard some murmurings from the other members of the cast about my sanity.

"Please, madam, it is in your best interests to comply," I urged.

"Yes, go ahead," said Lestrade. "And be quick about it. I've not had my breakfast yet."

She needed little further persuading, and slowly and with great effort, she started to lift her hands. As I suspected, by the time her arms were shoulder height, her expression was contorted with pain. A little higher, and she cried out and collapsed in a dead faint into my waiting arms.

"If you wish to take Mrs Young anywhere, Inspector," said I reprovingly, "then let it be to a hospital. It is impossible that she could have struck Mr Young down after the beating she received at his hands. This woman has serious injuries that need immediate medical attention."

Lestrade stared at me with a mixture of disbelief and impotent rage. "We'll see about this," said he. "A doctor will confirm if what you say is true or no. And if it is, then rest assured, Mr Holmes, I'll be speaking to you again. There's something funny going on around here and I mean to get to the bottom of it!"

He stalked out with what little pride he could muster under the circumstances, leaving the constables to carry Mrs Young from the theatre. Long after they had gone, I was aware that the others were still regarding me with curious admiration at my efforts on behalf of Mrs Young, and finally it was left to Mr Brownlow to put their thoughts into words.

"Well, I never," said he. "That were right clever, were that, lad. However did you know?"

"Mrs Young was in a great deal of pain all evening. It was obvious that Mr Young had treated her most cruelly."

"Aye, that were true enough. We'd often hear the poor lady crying."

"And yet none of you did anything about it?" I said accusingly.

He looked ashamed, as well he might, and had to clear his throat gruffly before he could answer.

"The question is, did you, lad? Speak out now, we'll not tell if you came to blows. He were in a nasty mood last night, especially after you crossed swords with him. It were my fancy he were out to give you what for."

I looked from one face to another and noted in each the guilty trace of their belief in my culpability in the knife-thrower's death. They were awed, but they were also wary. One of them was also putting on a very good act, for amongst their number was the real murderer of Mr Young, Mr Crump and all the others.

"No," I stated. "I did not harm him. But someone did."

"Do you know who?" asked Mr Webber.

I met his gaze. "Do you?"

He shook his head and looked away.

"Well, it's my belief it were an accident, and that's an end of it as far as I'm concerned," said Mr Brownlow. "Let that little Inspector come back sniffing around here if he wants, but he'll get nothing from us. We look after our own, you'll see, lad. Now, people, look lively. We've got a show this afternoon and I want this place looking shipshape and Bristol fashion. Chop, chop!"

So saying, he gave me a pat on the back and began to chivvy the others around. Merrivale and I exchanged glances.

"That went well, especially now everyone thinks you're the murderer," said he cheerily. "Good luck, old fellow. I think you're going to need it."

"Yes," I grunted in reply to his departing back. "I think I will too."

* * *

_Good old Holmes, for getting poor Mrs Young off the hook. But, oh dear, what a mess he's in! Will Lestrade come back to arrest him? Will Mrs Webber get 'friendly'?_

_Let's find out in Chapter Eight!_

_Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!_


	9. Chapter Eight

_**The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python**_

**Chapter Eight**

If I had hoped my new standing within the company would aid me in my investigation, I was sorely deceiving myself. While it was true that the others held firm and kept their word that they would not reveal their suspicions to the police, I was aware that the ranks had closed against me. Camaraderie was one thing; risking associating with a suspected murderer was another.

Frustrated as I was, I had retreated to my dressing room to ponder over the events of the previous evening. Lack of sleep had muddled my brain and forced the closure of my eyes, so that when I awoke it was to a fierce hammering on my door and a voice informing me that was I due on stage in five minutes.

Somehow I made it out of my room in time and managed to perform for the afternoon crowd with surprising clarity of mind. The situation was absurd in the extreme – I could tell a maid from the state of her hands and a commissionaire from his bearing, yet on the important question of the identity of the murder stalking this theatre, I was baffled. I stumbled off the stage to roars of approval, caught my infernal moustache as once again it detached itself from my upper lip and wondered what the deuce I was going to do next.

I could not spend the rest of my days living out of a theatre dressing room, even if that option remained open to me for much longer. The last I had heard of the state of Lestrade's investigation was that his inquiries were suspended pending the results of the coroner's inquest. I little doubted their findings. The Inspector would inevitably return, pointing the finger of guilt firmly in my direction.

If he did come to that conclusion, I could not blame him. I had no alibi, but no motive either, unless the others broke their word and told him what had passed between the knife-thrower and myself. At best, I could find myself brought up on a charge of killing in self-defence; at worst, cold-blooded murder by a homeless and penniless young man with nothing to his name save the clothes he stood up in. People had been hanged on slighter evidence than that before now.

This knowledge alone should have concentrated my mind, except that I found my attention wandering to more immediate material needs. I had finished the last of my cigarettes some hours before and I was starting to feel the effects of deprivation. The effect was curious, for it had served to heighten my sense of smell to the extent where I was able to detect the slightest waft of tobacco smoke.

An unseen trail drew me from the side of the stage to the small room by the door where Old George kept his vigil. A blue-grey haze was drifting from the interior and I lingered outside the door to breathe in the slightly noxious fumes. There I could have happily stayed but for the sudden rush of chorus girls who were gathering for their final turn on stage.

My quiet idyll rapidly became a fight for self-preservation as I was surrounded by a mass of scantily-clad, giggling young ladies. Hemmed in on all sides, I retreated from their advances as much as I could and found myself with my back up against the wall and nowhere to go.

News of the morning's events had not dinted their enthusiasm, and if anything had only served to inflame their curiosity. Questions came at me from every quarter and, while I tried my best to answer one, another was soon plucking at my sleeve and demanding to know more.

I had the distinct impression of being as some exhibit at a zoological collection. I was an object of interest, to be poked and prodded and giggled at according to their fancy. Worse, I was trapped and powerless to prevent the alleged accidental nudges and bumps that were fast overstepping the bounds of decency.

Just when I thought I should surely be ravaged on the spot, rescue came from the most unexpected of sources. The sound of a loud clap of hands brought the giggling and smirking to an abrupt end. Like a wolf pack acknowledging the dominance of their leader, my tormentors reluctantly relinquished their hold on my person and began to slink away. The group parted to reveal the formidable figure of Mrs Webber, the Strong Woman, resplendent in her stage outfit of tall powdered wig and dress of shot silk and green velvet.

"Girls, shouldn't you be getting ready to go onstage?" said she in a commanding voice. "I'm sure Mr Holmes has better things to do than to answer your silly questions."

She dismissed them with a wave of her hand, and they scattered.

"I hope they didn't inconvenience you too much," said she, smiling in a most feline manner. "They are young and naturally inquisitive."

"I am indebted to you, Mrs Webber," said I, straightening my rumpled clothing.

"Are you?" said she. An eyebrow was cocked in my direction. "I may one day have to remind you of that. If you aren't arrested first, that is."

I shook my head resignedly. "I didn't kill Mr Young."

"I never thought you did. A nice young man like yourself would not have to stoop to murder to put a bully like Young in his place. The others here, however, are simple folk and tend to jump to the wrong conclusions. They will believe anything they are told."

Quite to my surprise, she approached and took my hands in her firm, moist grasp.

"They fear that they will find these long, white fingers clasped about their throats," she purred. "But I have no such concerns. Would you like me to try to reassure them, Mr Holmes?"

"I would very much, Mrs Webber."

She smiled up at me from under her heavy eyelids. "That would make you twice in my debt. How do you intend to repay me?"

Such is the sort of situation for which a good upbringing can never entirely prepare a respectable young gentleman. I was painfully aware of how close she was and how tight was her grip on my hands. All of twenty stone and as strong as the proverbial ox, Mrs Webber had effectively taken the place of her younger rivals and seemed intent on marking out her territory. I had Merrivale's warning about her friendlier tendencies ringing in my ears, but all I could think about was the heady smell of tobacco I could detect on her breath and clothing.

"D-do you smoke, Mrs Webber?" I stammered.

The remark seemed to take her aback and her grip loosened. "Why, yes."

"Would they be Dutch, by any chance? You see, I pride myself on being able to identity the origin of tobacco by its particular smell."

She was confused enough to permit me to retrieve my hands and I gained some little space between us. "Well, then, it's my husband's tobacco, Hobson's Curly Cut. But –"

Fortunately, further discussion of the matter was abandoned by the appearance of Old George, who put his head around the door of his room and demanded to know what all the fuss was about.

Mrs Webber sprang away from me like a scalded cat. "I'll see you later, Mr Holmes," said she, pushing a stray lock from her wig back in place. "I will have a word with the others on your behalf, never fear."

So saying, she departed, leaving me to try to explain my presence to the inquisitive doorkeeper.

"We were talking," I said feebly, trying to make my statement sound a good deal more innocent than appearances might have seemed.

"Yes, Mrs Webber likes to talk, especially to the young gentlemen," said he, a grin curling around the oily black pipe he had clamped between his teeth. "There's no harm in her, mind. All heart is Mrs Webber." He gestured for me to join him. "Here, son, why don't you come in and have a warm by the fire before she comes back."

I reasoned that I could worse than to accept this offer. If anyone was qualified to tell me what went on behind the scenes at the theatre, then Old George was clearly the man to ask. His position meant he knew all the comings and goings, and from what I had so far observed, he had an open door for any member of the company with a mind to talk. That made him a veritable mine of information, which I was determined to plumb for any light he could throw on my inquiries.

Once inside his cramped and dingy quarters, he insisted on my taking the seat nearest the stove and then bustled about making tea for us both. While he busied himself, I took the liberty of glancing about his room. A few faded pictures, a framed handbill, shabby clothes and several worn and battered pieces of furniture – not much to show for a life. Whatever rewards he got from his position were not financial in nature.

With the tea duly made, Old George handed me a mug with a sizable chip out of the rim, no handle and a brown crack running from lip to base. Into this, he tipped a quantity of brandy, assuring me it was 'for medicinal purposes'. I accepted his offering with good grace, although the thought of more alcohol was starting to pall. At this rate, I would end up as inebriated as Mr Huxtable.

"Mrs Webber's quite right of course," said he, settling himself down opposite with a sigh of great contentment. "The others are frightened of you."

I eyed him over the top of my cup. "But you aren't?"

"You're no murderer. Leastways, if you were, you wouldn't have gone blabbing to that police inspector about it, would you now?"

"True. Although I could have been bluffing."

He smiled at my response and kindly, intelligent eyes held my gaze for the briefest of moments before a large spider creeping across the ceiling caught his interest and drew him away. Despite his epithet, I realised that George was not as elderly as I had at first thought.

A stringy man in his sixties, physically he appeared much older, for the whiteness of his hair and the deep lines of his face added age to features marked by a life of hard toil. At one time he had been employed in manual labour, for his hands were gnarled and bony, and his back was bent under the burdens he had been obliged to carry. An old injury had given him a pronounced limp, making every step an effort and necessitating his need to lean on nearby objects for support. How such a man had ended up here in this most unlikely of places was nearly as intriguing as the mystery which had initially brought me to his stage door.

For a long time, he puffed thoughtfully at his pipe, filling the area with the miasma of his tobacco smoke, which floated most welcome to my nostrils and went some way to sating my burning need for a cigarette. I was aware of being observed as keenly as I was observing, and I had the unsettling feeling that he had taken my measure and was forming his questions accordingly.

"Mind if I ask you something?" said he at last.

I nodded.

"What are you _really_ doing here, son? And don't try to fob me off with no tales about wanting a life on the stage. You're a smart, well-bred young gentleman with airs and graces that this lot here have never heard about outside the penny dreadfuls. You perform well enough, that's for sure, but you've no fire in your belly for it."

"Mr Saltash and his performing dog have fire?" I scoffed.

"He's an old man and well-meaning, if a bit muddled in the head. Lost his daughter and son-in-law to a winter fever some years back and has had to take to the stage to keep a roof over his head."

"Then our predicaments are alike," I said wryly. "It's the old story, George. I too need the money."

His gaze moved in my direction. "You couldn't have put brains like yours to better use?"

I mildly started at his statement.

"Oh, I've noticed it," he went on. "We all have. That about what you do being a trick – I didn't believe it for a moment. That's what frightens the others, you see. They don't like clever people. They think they're up to something."

I caught a smile creeping to my lips in spite of myself. "What do you think, George?"

He shrugged unconcernedly. "It's not my place to think, son. I just open the stage door, make tea and do some sweeping. That's enough for me. You want a smoke?"

He took the pipe from between his teeth and held it out to me. I eyed the offering with considerable misgivings until temptation got the better of me. Taking the lead of an old hand, I placed the pipe in my mouth and took several deep puffs. A pungent, rank odour, akin to a mix of burning rubber, old socks and long dead dogs, filled my mouth and caught in the back of my throat. The pipe fairly shot from my mouth as I spluttered and almost choked.

"There, there," said George, slapping me heartily on the back. "Your first pipe, eh? It's my own mix is in that there bowl."

"It's certainly an acquired taste," I wheezed, trying desperately to regain my breath.

"You'll find it grows on you," said he. "I'm never without a pipe, me. It gives you time for thinking. This old clay has seen me through many a long night. You might think of getting yourself one if you intend sleeping here through the winter."

"You know about that?"

"Why else would you still be here in the early hours? You should have told me, son. I've got some old blankets here that'd keep out the cold."

"Well, that much is true. I find my circumstances somewhat reduced of late."

"It won't be forever," said he, staring deep into the glow heart of the stove. "Like your friend, young Mr Merrivale, you'll be on your way in no time. Got a beautiful voice he has. Talent like that deserves to do well. I knew he wouldn't be staying us long."

"If he makes it out alive," I remarked, watching him closely for his reaction. "The death rate around here is unfeasibly high. What do you make of these 'accidents', George?"

He sat back in his chair and rubbed thoughtfully at his scrappy beard. "The theatre's a dangerous place. I should know."

He stretched out his injured leg and gazed down at it.

"Time was I could turn in a performance with the best of them. On the high wire I was, thirty feet above the ground, with nothing twixt me and Mother Earth save me own wits. Didn't have a net in those days neither."

"What happened?"

"An accident," said he, his eyes dimming at the memory. "All those performances when I was foot-perfect, but comes one mistake and it's all over quicker than you can snap your fingers." He sighed. "I fell. Broke me leg in three places and damaged me back. That was it for me."

"I'm sorry," I said. "That must have been difficult for you."

He gave a slow shake of his head. "You have to make the best of the hand you're dealt. I still had two strong arms and a will to work. I was on the railways until they started laying off the labour a few years back. Then Mr Brownlow did me a favour, like, and here I am, back where I started." He scratched at his grey locks and sighed. "Funny how life works out."

As he finished speaking, a distant roar rose up from the direction of the stage. Another show had come to an end. It occurred to me that I had wasted the better part of a day in idle speculation, sleep and squandering the skills I should be putting to more profitable use elsewhere.

Worse still, a peculiar sense of depression was settling over my soul. My conversation with George had thrown no new light on the matter, only to reinforce that nagging little voice in the back of my mind that perhaps I had erred in my judgement. A man may only be told for so long that his thinking is mistaken before he starts to believe it for himself.

I had to allow the possibility. After all, people did fall from high wires, men who played with knives had been known to stab themselves before now, and handling wild animals always carried an element of risk. I thought back to Mr Young and the manner of his death. I had scrubbed my hands until they were red raw and still I could remember the feel, smell and sight of the dead man's blood upon my skin.

Had I been so shaken that I was allowing Merrivale's panic to lead me astray?

I shook my head and reprimanded myself for being weak-minded. It was true that accidents did occur, but not too frequently. Even if I discounted all others, I was still left with the death of the prestidigitator, allegedly crushed by his python, and the knife-thrower, skewered to the hilt by his own blade. I knew what I had seen and would uphold my convictions to the end. That was, as long as it was not _my_ end that I was pursuing.

If Mrs Webber had been as good as her word, then I reasoned I might be able to continue my inquiries by questioning the other members of the company. As affable as George's company was, I had not the time to spare, idling my afternoon away smoking and listening to tales of the old days. I got to my feet, made my apologies and handed him back his pipe.

"Keep it," he said. "You need it more than me."

"It's kind of you, but I couldn't in all good conscience accept it."

"Why? You're not too proud to take a gift from an old man, are you, son?"

I smiled. "Not when it's your favourite pipe."

He shook his head and chuckled. "When you get to my age, you get past having attachments to things. Besides, I've got others. It's yours, with my blessing. Something to remember us by when you've gone on your merry way."

After such a sentiment, it seemed churlish to refuse. I extinguished the glow, stowed in my pocket and took my leave. Barely was I outside the room, however, than there came a knocking at the door. Rather than disturb George, I answered it and came face to face with a unsmiling Inspector Lestrade.

"Well, well," said he. "Just the very person I was looking for. I've been to see your landlady, Mr Holmes, and do you know what she told me?"

I fancied it was a rhetorical question, but answered him anyway, robbing him of the satisfaction of revelation.

"That I am a feckless young man, an idler who spends his days doing who-knows-what, with no visible means of support and owing several weeks in back rent. How am I doing, Inspector?"

"That's nearly word for word, sir," said he, looking a little deflated. "And what do you have to say about it?"

"Nothing," I retorted. "As you can readily see, I now am in gainful employment and seeking to return to my lodgings as soon as I am able to pay off my debts."

"Gainful, you say," said he doubtfully, glancing about at my surroundings. "Not what I'd call it, but each to their own. So you admit to needing money, Mr Holmes. What if I put it to you that you killed and then robbed Mr Young?"

I sighed wearily. "As far as I am aware, Mr Young's personal possessions were intact, including his wedding ring. If I had wished to rob him, I could just as easily have waited for him outside instead of creeping up on him while he was rehearsing. And why in heaven's name would I still be here, Inspector, if I had committed such a foul deed?"

Lestrade seemed momentarily flummoxed. "Well, that's fair comment, I suppose. I shall still need you to come down to the station with me, sir."

I folded my arms and remained where I was. "Am I being arrested, Inspector? If so, it is my right under the law of this land to know the charge."

"Ah, you're one of them 'I-know-my-rights' sorts, are you?" said Lestrade, wagging his finger at me. "I've met your type before and I won't take your lip, so be warned, young man."

"The charge?" I said flatly.

"No charge, sir. We need you to make a statement for the record for the coroner."

I could hardly refuse, but I was greatly annoyed at the further delay. Another afternoon wasted, another opportunity for solving the mystery of the deaths at the Hoxton Hippodrome lost. I was starting to think I would never make any headway in this investigation at all.

* * *

_Put him down, Mrs Webber – there's a long line of people wanting a piece of young Mr Holmes, so take a number and get to the back of the queue. Some characters, honestly! You have to keep these OCs in line, or else they get up to all sorts of mischief. _

_Cheer up, Holmes – your luck might change in Chapter Nine (in fact I know it will)!_

_Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!_


	10. Chapter Nine

_**The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python**_

**Chapter Nine**

Entirely as I had anticipated, the simple task of making a statement for the official record took a good deal longer than it should have done.

I was left for a goodly while in a cold, sparsely-furnished room while Lestrade wandered off to find someone to take down my account of finding the dead knife-thrower, Mr Young. I suspected an ulterior motive in my treatment, that it was to be hoped that I would be intimidated by my surroundings into confessing all. I was not in the slightest deceived by Lestrade's suddenly affable manner; outwardly, he was all smiles, and yet I was well aware he was still eyeing me up as his principal suspect.

With no good reason to detain me, he was forced, somewhat reluctantly to let me go. By the time I arrived back at the theatre, I had barely an hour before curtain up. I could only rue the fact that another day had been wasted. The prospect of another performance lifted my mood somewhat, and I had to wonder if I was not starting to enjoy it a little too much.

Certainly there was something that caused a worm of pleasure to weave itself about my insides. My senses thrilled to the smoky atmosphere of the stage lit by the lime lamps, to the smell of the grease paint, that moment before stepping out before the audience when the heart is wont to hammer so hard within one's chest and finally that feeling of exultation to hear the cheer of the crowd and to take a bow before a sea of clapping hands.

For all those who doubted Merrivale's wits in eschewing a respectable life in the pursuit of his passion, they could do no better than to spend a few days in his chosen environment. It was a hard heart indeed that failed to be swayed by the allure of it.

This close to curtain up, there was little else I could do but change into my stage outfit and prowl backstage looking for a likely candidate to help me with my inquiries. Most of others were just arriving and had neither the time nor the inclination to oblige my interest.

I drifted aimlessly until the sound of chattering and giggling came to my ears and brought me to a halt. Glancing around the corner, I saw a gathering of the Twickenham Twinkles chorus girls, dressed, ready for their next performance and drinking steaming tea from a selection of Old George's broken cups and mugs.

I will admit that the scene gave me some cause for hesitation. Thus far, my treatment at their hands had been less than polite and more than friendly. Good sense, however, told me that they were likely to be a valuable source of information regarding their fellow performers.

What I needed to know could be within my reach. In order to gain it, I would have to undergo a mauling at their hands.

It was a dismal prospect. How one suffers for one's art!

I stepped out boldly and prepared myself for the worst. As it happened, by initiating contact, I seemed to have gained the upper hand. Used as they were to having to corner their subjects, to have a gentleman willing to sit and sup with them appeared to be a novel experience. They shifted up and made a place for me, a cup was thrust into my grasp, and wandering hands for the moment were kept away from my person.

I must confess that every impression I had formed of the young ladies based on prior meetings was entirely erroneous. Taken off-guard, they were calmer, less inclined to silly fits of giggling, open and eager to gossip.

I had started with the events of the previous evening, at which none of them expressed surprise or showed any particular sense of sorrow for Mr Young's demise. That it had not been done ages ago was the only wonder to them, for he was universally described as being a thoroughly bad lot.

Mrs Webber's name I idly threw into the discussion and found, as I had suspected, that her behaviour backstage was notorious. The girls were certain she had had her claws into all the men who had met their deaths at the Hoxton Hippodrome, with the exception of Mr Young, who was too much of a brute even for her to contemplate.

My mind filled the image of the massive Mr Webber crushing the puny prestidigitator in a bear-like grip in a fit of jealous rage. I was certain I was finally on the right trail, except that it did not explain his motive for the killing of Mr Young, or why a similar pattern of slaying had not been followed with the other victims.

The young lady who I had seen coming out of the room of the theatre manager, Mr Brownlow, seemed to think that Crump the prestidigitator had some hold over him, since his wage was twice that of the other performers. On several occasions, she had witnessed him openly helping himself to a handful of notes from the night's takings, a fact she had mentioned to Brownlow, who made light of the matter. He was being blackmailed then, probably with the threat of exposure about his extra-marital affair. It was another excellent motive for one slaying, but not the others.

Further probing revealed another interesting fact – most of the company seemed to have had other more dubious interests. Kardinski, the escapologist, drowned and consumed by his crabs, had been a noted lothario, taking full advantage of any pretty young thing who came knocking at his door. Jumping Jack Price, the juggler and tumbler, was heavily in debt on account of his love of gambling, and thought nothing of dipping into other performers' pockets when no one was looking.

Worst of all seemed to be the younger Matlock of The Flying Matlocks fame, who had been something of a ne'er-do-well, with a sharp tongue and disdain for the world in general. He had broken the heart of a chorus girl, who, devastated at the deception and ruination of her good name, took her own life by throwing herself into the Thames. A week later, he fell to his death through a hole in the safety net. As for the Amazing Electric Man, himself a victim of his own act, the general consensus was that he was a drunken lout, who had near beaten a man to death for daring to criticise his turn on stage.

If anything, I now had too much information. I could suggest a motive for the murder of any one performer, but not one that in any way linked them. The killings were too random and too diverse in method.

The only thing any of the allegedly murdered performers had in common was that they worked at the Hoxton Hippodrome. Since that vague category could be extended to include all the male members of the company, I could quite see why Merrivale was so anxious.

Since the first 'accident' had been that of young Matlock, I wondered if that had been the spur for the deaths that followed. I was about to question the girls about their feelings towards the fellow when disaster struck. My moustache detached itself from my upper lip and floated down to land on one young lady's foot.

All conversation was forgotten and mayhem took its place. I found myself at the centre of a well-meaning group, who were intent on making me look my best for the stage. Someone had produced a bag of theatrical make-up, which was liberally applied to my face.

I could have protested, although it seemed churlish under the circumstances as they had been so obliging with their information and I was more than pleased when they were able to secure my moustache with the application of a stronger gum. By the time they had finished, the other members of the company were gathering and my appearance was met with general grunts of approval.

Intrigued, I found myself a mirror. The change was startling. A stark white face stared back at me, the cheekbones highlighted by deep shadows in the hollows beneath. My brows were heavy and brooding over eyes the colour of which had been intensified by the application of a little purple powder to the lids.

The effect was somewhat crude – suitable for the stage, but it was not a face I should have liked to encounter in a dark alley. I could see, however, that it did have possibilities. The same applied more sparingly could produce a much more subtle effect. The ability to render myself unrecognisable had the potential for greater practical use in the course of my future investigations.

Success in that department was evidenced by Merrivale's reaction when I turned at the touch of his hand on my shoulder. His hand went to his mouth and he staggered back, only to let out a long sigh of relief when he recognised my face.

"Heavens above, I thought you were the murderer," said he. "You look like death warmed up." He smiled feebly at his inopportune choice of words. "How goes the investigation? Do you know who did it?"

"Everybody and nobody," I said with a weary sigh. "I can find reasons aplenty for the killing of any one particular individual, but not for all six."

"You think it's a madman then? Oh dear, they're hard to spot, aren't they? It could be anyone. Even you, dressed like that."

Whatever answer I had was interrupted by a thunderous banging on the stage door. Old George shuffled out to answer it and in from the snow stumbled a man in his early thirties in black frock coat and dented hat, with his collar awry and his tie missing.

"Friends, Romans and countrymen," this vision proclaimed to all and sundry, "have no fear. I am returned!"

The response to this was muted. Edwin the Almost Human Canine whined and placed his paws over his nose. A drunken Mr Huxtable squinted at him, made a vague disinterested wave of his hand and promptly fell over his own feet to land in the lap of a chorus girl.

"Nothing changes," snorted the newcomer. His eye fixed on me and he lurched over. "Well, well, what have we here? Who is this young Apollo? I don't remember you, young fellow me lad."

Merrivale gave him a dubious look and proceeded with the introductions.

"Holmes, this is Mr Augustus Blythe. Mr Blythe, Mr Sherlock Holmes."

"Delighted to meet you," said the ubiquitous Mr Blythe, shaking me warmly by the hand. "What is it you do around here, young man?"

This close, I was treated to stale breath and the rank odour of a man who had been in the same clothes for several days or more without benefit of soap or water. His eyes were red-rimmed and staring, his pupils reduced to the tiniest of pinpoints. His skin had a pasty pallor and his large hands slightly shook. Around his mouth was an encrustation made up of a mixture of spittle and his last meal. A flea moved lazily along his hairline, seeking out the warmer climate to be found beneath the sweatband of his battered hat.

"I read minds," I replied in answer to his question, withdrawing to a safer distance.

"Well, you'd better not read mine. Can't have you being privy to all my dirty little secrets, can we now? Some of the things I've seen and done would make your hair stand on end." He grinned, revealing brown, decaying teeth. "They call me The Pyromancer, by the way. I know the secrets of fire. Here, hold this."

He had ripped a piece of wood from the frame of Old George's door and thrust it into my hand. Taking a small bottle from his pocket, he dribbled a little of the contents over the sliver I held, and smiled wolfishly.

"Now blow on it. I dare you!"

In all honesty, it seemed a foolhardy thing to do. In the dim light, the drying liquid had a greenish tinge and I already had some inkling of the outcome if I did as Mr Blythe suggested.

Merrivale, however, was a good deal less cautious and huffed on the piece of wood. The liquid evaporated and the sliver I was holding burst into flames, burning my fingers in the process.

Mr Blythe burst out laughing. "My, my, Mr Merry, you have a very hot breath!"

"Not really," said I, stamping on the burning wood to put out the flames. "Yellow phosphorus is highly flammable and is well known for its pyrophoric properties."

"Its pyro what?" asked Merrivale.

"It is self-igniting when exposed to air, which is exactly what occurred when the liquid base of Mr Blythe's 'potion' dried. For that reason, it is also extremely dangerous. I am surprised you carry it in your pocket, sir."

Mr Blythe was clearly impressed by my pronouncement. "That's very clever of you, Mr Holmes," said he. "However did you know all that?"

"Such things are of interest to me," said I. "It is something of a hobby of mine."

"Then you are a rare creature indeed. Would that we were all so high-minded. My inspiration comes from the vilest corners of Limehouse and those dark, fumy rooms where a man might converse with gods and demons."

I had already deduced from his appearance and manner that he had been for some days under the influence of a drug. The flea had suggested opium immediately, for where else might a man attract such a parasite but from close contact with the foul bedding and foul surroundings to be found in many a backstreet den.

"Is that where you've been these past three days?" slurred Mr Huxtable, finally on his feet and staggering towards us. "Mr Brownlow warned you what would happen the last time."

"And the time before that and the time before that," retorted Mr Blythe. "Yet here I am, ready to give the performance of my life. You tell that cavorting theatre manager that The Pyromancer has skills to make the audience weep, idle scum that they are."

From the look of him, I harboured my doubts as to his ability to make it back to his dressing room, let alone onto the stage. He staggered into the bowels of the theatre, much to the relief of all, for the air was much sweeter for his absence.

"Is there anyone normal here?" I asked of Merrivale.

"I am," he declared with some pride, which to my mind was somewhat misplaced.

Certainly he had an abnormally outstanding talent. The remarkable voice housed within his portly frame repeatedly made an impression with the audience and provoked the loudest of applauses. To everyone's surprise, Mr Blythe did make it onto the stage, and both stunned and delighted the onlookers in equal measure. Even Mr Brownlow had to admit grudgingly that the man was good at what he did, thus supplying me with the reason for his toleration of Mr Blythe's less salubrious habits.

My own performance that night was marred by my near confusing a bailiff with a solicitor's clerk. Outwardly, there was no sign of my near error, yet I was keenly aware that lack of sleep and nervous exhaustion were befuddling my mind to the point where I had actually hesitated for a full two seconds before correctly deducing the man's occupation.

The sheer pointlessness of my frittering away my skills in such a frivolous manner, allied with my failure to penetrate the darkness that surrounded the murderer's identity was producing a depressed effect on my soul. What I needed rest and space to think.

With this in mind, I returned immediately to my dressing room, only to be waylaid by the young lad who I had seen earlier washing the knife-thrower's blood from the curtains.

"Clean your boots, gov?" said he in a chirpy voice that sat ill with his thin, haggard appearance that made him seem older than his thirteen years. "Only cost you a penny."

"I can't afford it," I said. "Even at a penny."

"I'd do it fur nuthin," he persisted. "If you'll teach me how you do that thing o'yours. That's what I did for the others."

I was about to refuse as politely as I could, when I was struck by his use of the past tense.

"Others?" I queried. "You mean the men who died?"

"S'right," said he. "Mr Crump, he was going to teach me his magic tricks. Twelve week a'more I polished his boots and not a thing do I have to show for it."

"He reneged on your agreement?"

The boy's face twisted into an expression of confusion.

I rephrased the question. "He broke his word?"

"That he did. Just like all the others. But not you, sir, you're a respectable gent. Anything I can do for you, sir?"

Considering the fate of his previous employers, the proposition was unappealing. I told him I would think about it, added his name to the growing list of suspects and retreated into the safety of my room.

I was down to my shirtsleeves when there came to my ear the faint creak of old hinges being turned and a silent step on the wooden boards. I turned, in full anticipation of attack, and found not some club-wielding demon, but rather Mrs Webber, the Strong Woman of Stoke Poges, standing with her back to the door and regarding me with the look of hungry lioness.

She had, I noticed, discarded her powdered wig, although she still wore her stage dress of shot silk and green velvet.

"Mrs Webber, how may I help you?" said I.

"You retired early, young man," she purred, running her copious tongue over her full red lips. "Did you think I would not notice?"

Quite why she should think that important quite escaped me, but clearly she had something in mind and I held out a hope that it might be the very thing to finally solve this tangled mystery.

"Very observant of you, madam."

She grinned, cat-like, revealing the gaps in her yellow teeth.

"And you knew that I would come, didn't you, you naughty boy?"

* * *

_Ah-ha, this is where we came in! No prizes for guessing what's going to happen next. That'll teach him to keep his door locked in future._

_Would anyone care to hazard a guess about the identity of the murderer?_

_Well, perhaps we'll find out in Chapter Ten!_

_Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!_


	11. Chapter Ten

_A/N: Readers of a nervous disposition beware! Mrs Webber is on the prowl!_

* * *

_**The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python**_

**Chapter Ten**

The result of this encounter found me flat on my back, pinned to the bed by twenty stone of muscle and excess flesh, my sides pinched by the considerable thighs of the formidable Mrs Webber, and not a notion of how I was to escape.

I was quite hopelessly trapped and it did not take too much imagination to deduce what the lady had in mind. That I was equally intent on defending my integrity in the most honourable way possible meant that at some point in the proceedings our purposes were liable to clash.

I had only myself to blame, having walked blindly into this situation despite Merrivale's warnings of the irresistible nature of Mrs Webber's advances. Having now been witness to her methods, I could quite see why she was able to get her own way. Apart from challenging the lady to a fight, the outcome of which was not guaranteed to be in my favour, I was having difficulty in discerning an escape from the undignified position into which I had been thrust.

As it was, the lady was already making the most of the prize laid out before her.

"Look at you," she purred, tracing the line of my ribs with her fingertips. "You're so thin. There's hardly anything of you, my poor lamb. You need someone to look after you."

"I am more than capable of looking after myself," said I. Her nails lightly raked the span of my chest and the breath caught in my throat. "Madam, I must protest. You really must let me up."

My objections were blatantly ignored. Instead of freedom, the full weight of the lady came crashing down onto my torso. The bed groaned and I thought my ribs must surely give out under the strain. I thought of Mr Crump and his crushed body, and had to wonder if I was about to stumble onto the truth of how he met his unfortunate end.

Sharing that fate, however, was decidedly unappealing.

Certainly I was in a great deal of pain and having considerable difficulty in breathing. Dark borders were appearing at the edge of my vision, and I had the absurd hope that unconsciousness would come to rescue me from my appalling situation.

If so, it could not come soon enough. Mrs Webber's face was inches from mine, her eyes minutely studying every inch of my features before settling on her immediate focus of fascination. Too late to turn my head away, her lips fastened on mine with the strength of a limpet. I was temporary stupefied into submission by the twin odours of alcohol and tobacco, conjoined with the aroma of sweat and cheap perfume that invaded my mouth and nostrils to nauseating effect.

By the time my wits reasserted themselves, it was to the horrifying thought that I was about to be asphyxiated by the indelicate attentions of a woman intent on sucking what little air was remaining from my lungs. In my panic, I finally succeeded in freeing my hands from beneath her knees and pushed her away.

"Now really, Mrs Webber, this has gone too far," I said, gasping for breath.

"Not far enough for my liking," said she, licking her lips. "Are you toying with me, Mr Holmes?"

"No, I most certainly am not!" I declared. "I apologise most sincerely if I have given you the wrong impression, but I can assure you that you are quite mistaken."

A low, feral chuckle rumbled from her throat. "Have you been naughty, leading an honest lady like me astray? Well, we all know what happens to naughty little boys, don't we?"

I dreaded to think what she had in mind, and I was sure that I did not want to find out.

Where reason had failed, force had to oblige. My sudden show of strength took her aback, as if at this stage she had not anticipated my resistance. No sooner had I pushed her to the floor than I was on my feet and hurrying for the door. A hand closed around my ankle, arrested my flight and brought me to my knees. A tremendous weight thudded into the small of my back as Mrs Webber jumped on top of me. I buckled and collapsed.

"That wasn't very nice," said she reprovingly. "Don't play so rough, Mr Holmes."

I sighed and gave up my struggles. The situation was hopeless.

"Mrs Webber, I don't want to play at all."

"You're only saying that because you're a modest young gentleman."

"No, I mean every word of it."

I was flipped onto my back and the face that hovered above mine took on an expression of bewilderment.

"You do? Why?"

"I could give you many reasons, madam, but mostly because you are a married woman and your husband is jealous man."

She snorted. "My old man couldn't care less, if that's what's worrying you. I could run through the streets of London stark naked and he wouldn't bat an eyelid."

The mental image that statement produced was less than pleasant and with effort I forced it from my mind.

"Are you sure?" said I. "Your former lovers have a nasty habit of meeting with fatal accidents here in this very theatre."

Her brow wrinkled into a frown. "What are you saying?"

"It must have crossed your mind, Mrs Webber. Is your husband capable of murder, do you think?"

She threw her head back and guffawed. "Murder? Him? Don't make me laugh. He has hard enough job getting out of bed in the morning, let alone having the guts to murder anyone on account of me. Anyway," said she, subjecting me once again to her full weight as she reclined on top of me, "why are you so interested in those dead people? They were accidents, so we were told."

"What if they weren't?"

A devilish smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "Then we'd better make the most of the time we've got, hadn't we?"

The sudden pressure of her lips on mine robbed me of speech. It would take nothing short of a miracle now to get free of her attentions.

I wondered if they would find me in the morning, a withered, deflated wreck of a man, another unfortunate accident to add to the Hoxton Hippodrome's ever-growing list of fatalities. So would end the fledging career of Mr Sherlock Holmes, cut short in his prime, the victim of another improbable quirk of fate.

Saving graces, however, come in the most unlikely of forms. As Mrs Webber proceeded to pluck free the laces that held her sizable bosom in check, there came a knock at my door and Merrivale barged in without waiting for an invitation. His eyes bulged when he took in the sight of the pair of us on the floor and he hastily made his apologies and turned to leave.

With Mrs Webber's attention distracted, I was able to slither free and was away like a hare pursued by hounds, out into the corridor, where I promptly collided with Merrivale.

"Sorry to interrupt like that, old man," said he, his cheeks pink with the flush of his embarrassment. "I didn't know you were… entertaining."

"I wasn't," I panted. "I was being mauled."

His eyebrows rose. "That's what happened to me. Look out, here she comes."

Mrs Webber had appeared in the doorway. Her eyes latched onto me and she came hurrying in my direction. I put Merrivale between us and used his considerable bulk as my defensive rampart against her amorous intentions.

She put her hands on her hips and regarded us coquettishly. "Now, Mr Merry, it's no use you being jealous," said she. "We had our fun and you mustn't be greedy."

He gulped. "Believe me, Mrs Webber, that was the last thing on my mind. As for my friend, you are welcome to him."

He tried to step aside, but I kept a firm hold of his shoulders and returned him to his position in front of me.

"Madam, be reasonable," said I. "Surely it must have come to your notice that I am a most unwilling partner in your proposal for this evening's entertainment."

"Oh, what a shy boy you are," said she. "It's really quite endearing. Your friend was shy too at first, weren't you, Mr Merry? But I won him over in the end."

He cast me a dubious glance. "She can be very persuasive."

"I know," I muttered.

"Well, now," said she, rolling up her sleeves. "Are you coming back with me, Mr Holmes? A nice gentleman like you should know it's considered very bad manners to run out on a lady."

"She's right," said Merrivale, nodding sagely. "And she's really quite nice once you get to know her."

"I have no wish to know her any better than I already do," I declared. "Mrs Webber, I suggest you give up this vain quest of yours and return to your husband!"

Our altercation was starting to attract attention. Several heads had appeared from out of other dressing rooms and were regarding our discussion with interest. More worryingly, I now heard the sleepy tones of Mr Webber as he emerged from a doorway behind me. He took one look at my open shirt, saw his wife in a state of undress and his face clouded with ill-disguised consternation.

"Carlotta, what the devil is going on here?" he demanded.

"As if you would care!" she retorted. "Get back to your bottle, you drunken old sot!"

"Look to yourself, madam, chasing after men half your age. Why, you're old enough to be his mother!"

Along with Merrivale, I had flattened myself against the wall while this extraordinary altercation took place. If it is accurate to say that the course of true love never runs smoothly, then the Webbers had clearly been experiencing turbulence for some time.

What struck me most was Mr Webber's relatively mild reaction. Discovery of an infidelity may take a man in many ways, and I had convinced myself that I was about to discover the rough edge of the fellow's temper and a personal encounter with his sizable fists. It was evident that he was deeply hurt by his wife's behaviour, and yet I sensed such weariness in his massive frame that it came as no great surprise to me when he finally gave way and refused to argue any more.

Mrs Webber stormed away, leaving the three of us in a most awkward situation. What to say to the man? He presented the very figure of a soul in torment, broken and resigned to his fate and the loss of the woman he clearly loved.

A frown took hold of his face as he eyed me. "Well, son, what are you waiting for? Go after her."

I felt my jaw grow slack. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's you she wants. There'll be hell to pay otherwise."

"But I don't want her," I replied.

"Why? What's wrong with her? She's a good woman, a woman any man would be proud of. I'll have no one say nothing against her."

I shook my head. "Mr Webber, it seems to me that _you_ are the one who should be going after her. You do, I think, hold your wife in deep affection?"

"I'd do anything for her, if only she'd see it," said he bitterly.

"Then you should tell her that," I suggested. "Has it occurred to you that she doesn't see it? Perhaps she has come to believe that this disinterest of yours in her affairs is genuine. It could be that she believes you no longer care for her."

I gathered I was about to discover the impact of my impertinence when Mr Webber raised his shoulders and pulled himself up to his full height. For the second time that evening, I had the pleasant experience of being taken aback by his unexpected reaction.

"Well, maybe there's some truth in what you say," he conceded. "She's a passionate woman is Carlotta."

"Oh, yes," said Merrivale, the smile quickly fading from his face when Mr Webber scowled at him.

"It's this accursed place," he went on. "It drains your last ounce. We thought coming to London would put money in our pocket and fame in our reach, but it has only brought misery to the both of us."

"Then perhaps you should return to Stoke Poges," I said.

He nodded decisively. "You've a wise head on those shoulders of yours, young man. Keep it out of trouble in future."

It is not often I have the opportunity to dabble in affairs of the heart, yet clearly I had gone some way in reconciling this unhappy couple. Mr Webber set off determinedly down the corridor after his wife, leaving me in no doubt that Mrs Webber would not be troubling me or anyone other male member of the company ever again.

Having solved one problem, however, another had presented itself. Any theory I had formulated about Mr Webber being the murderer stalking the Hoxton Hippodrome had been thoroughly dashed to pieces.

"That was odd," observed Merrivale. "You had a lucky escape, though. I thought he was going to hit you."

"Yes, so did I."

"He still loves her?"

"Yes."

"And she loves him?"

"Yes."

"But she thought he didn't, so was trying to make him jealous, and he went along with it because he thought it made her happy?"

"Yes, Merrivale! What do you find so hard to understand?"

"People are strange," said he miserably. "Women, especially. I'll never understand them." He sniffed. "Mr Webber isn't our murderer then?"

"No," said I wearily. "I must confess that I was thoroughly mistaken about him."

"Then you're no closer to discovering who it is? That means you'll have to remain here."

I took a deep breath and tried to calm my rattled nerves. "Should my tenure in this infernal place be required for much longer, I may well be tempted into murder myself. And you, Merrivale, will be the first to know about it!"

"You can't blame me for this, old man," he wheedled, starting to back away. "These things happen."

"Well, it never happened to me until I had the misfortune of meeting you again."

"I can see you're still upset," said he, making a very hasty retreat. "We'll talk about this in the morning when you're in a better mood."

He scuttled away like a frightened mouse, almost colliding with the shuffling figure of Old George as he did so. The elderly doorkeeper grinned as he flew by, and then continued in my direction. Over his arm he carried several threadbare blankets and in his hand held an old tin mug.

"I've just seen that Mr and Mrs Webber going home together for the first time in ages," said he, giving me a conspiratorial wink. "He said they won't be performing here any more and something about them going back to Stoke Poges. That wouldn't be on account of anything you did, would it, Mr Holmes?"

His gaze was directed at my somewhat dishevelled appearance. My hair was unkempt and my shirt was devoid of buttons where Mrs Webber had torn it asunder.

"A needle and thread might be in order," he remarked wryly. "Will you be sleeping here again tonight?"

"Lack of alternative accommodation makes it a necessity," I admitted.

"Well, then, I've brought you some blankets to keep out the cold," said he, passing the bundle across. "And I've made you a mug of hot milk to help you sleep. You'll need it tonight. They say there's more snow coming."

I thanked him and away he went, wishing me a good night. I returned to my room, closed the door and wedged a chair under the handle, to prevent any further intrusions.

The next half hour I spent trying to sew my missing buttons back on my shirt, but before I was even halfway through my task, my vision was blurring and I was having trouble threading the needle. The milk had proved an excellent aid to sleep and, abandoning my task, I drew the blankets around me and was soon lost to the world.

My rest did not last as long as I could have wished, however, for some hours later, I awoke suddenly from a dreamless sleep with an odd impression that something was amiss. It took a little while for my slumber-addled brain to adjust to wakefulness, by which time I was aware of a strange smell in the air. Sickly sweet, like over-cooked pork, it had crept under my door and invaded my room, coating my throat and mouth with its indelicate odour.

My pocket watch told me it was a little after four, too early for any of the other members of the company to have returned to the theatre. I wondered vaguely if this was some cruel dream, that my grumbling stomach had produced delusions of cooking food where in fact there was none. Either way, it seemed to me that I had no option but to investigate.

I dragged on my coat, freed the handle of the door and stepped out into the corridor. Outside the smell was oppressive, noxious even, and I was forced to put my handkerchief over my nose. The flickering light of my candle cast eerie shapes on the dirty walls and drifting smoke, allowing me enough illumination to make my way along to where the miasma seemed strongest.

Thin tendrils of smoke crept out from under the dressing room door of Mr Augustus Blythe, the fire-eater I had met the evening before. The door knob was hot to the touch, burning my hand as I attempted to open it. With a sinking feeling in my soul, I used my handkerchief to gain purchase on the knob and pushed the door open.

A great rush of smoke and heat hit me in the face, along with that appalling smell of burning flesh. My eyes adjusted and before me I saw what was left of the smouldering remains of the man they had called The Pyromancer.

* * *

_Another accident? What do you think?_

_The body count is certainly racking up in this story! Holmes had better get his act together and solve this case quick or else there won't be anyone left. Do __**you**__ know who this murderer is?_

_Expect another visit from Lestrade in Chapter Eleven!_

_Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!_


	12. Chapter Eleven

_**The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python**_

**Chapter Eleven**

"So, we meet again, young man."

The familiar voice raised me from my torpor to glance in the direction of the door where stood the unimposing figure of Inspector Lestrade. I had been expecting him for the last hour or so, since his previous involvement with the death of Mr Young meant that it was inevitable he should be called to investigate yet another death at the Hoxton Hippodrome.

The reason for his delay was evident in his meticulous state of dress at so early an hour of the morning; he had even stopped to collect his breakfast, a rather unfortunate choice of several rashers of fatty bacon sandwiched between two thick slices of white bread. The implication of this promised ill tidings for me. Lestrade had been in no hurry, because he knew for certain the culprit could not get away. It seemed, like others, he had already decided my guilt in the matter.

Unfortunately for me, the sergeant at Hoxton police station I had informed of the death had taken the spirited view that the first person on the scene of the crime was likely to be the guilty party. After having sent a constable on his way to set the investigation in motion, he had proceeded to clap in me irons and march me back to the theatre to explain myself. Horrified by what he had found, he had locked me in the room with the remains of the unfortunate Mr Blythe and there I had been forced to stay ever since.

Now Lestrade was here, I had my hopes I would be hauled away from this place of death to Scotland Yard, if only to be freed from this enforced close association with the stench of burned fat and the pathetic evidence of a grisly end. Not that I am superstitious or fearful in the presence of the dead; even the most credulous believer must own that there were limits to what harm a skull, an arm still clad in a shirt sleeve and a foot in a scorched boot can inflict on the living. Detachment from the scene of the crime is always to be preferred by a suspect, however, not least because people are liable to jump to the worst of conclusions when in the presence of foul murder.

Lestrade for his part seemed in no great hurry to leave. He stood in the doorway, taking a bite from his sandwich, and chewing thoroughly and thoughtfully while he surveyed the scene. Inevitably, his gaze returned to me.

"Want to tell me what happened?" said he.

I shook my head. "I have no idea, Inspector."

"Just an innocent bystander." He took another bite and mulled over my predicament. "I hope you don't mind me saying this, young man, but this is the second dead man you've found in as many days. Some might say that is a coincidence too far."

"So would I, Inspector."

His eyes gleamed. "Ah, then you admit your guilt in the matter. Quite right too. It's always best to come clean. The derbies have that effect on a man. There's nothing like the feel of the cold weight of iron around your wrists to inspire a confessional."

"I didn't have anything to do with his death," I protested. "This is exactly how I found him."

Lestrade surveyed the remains. "How would you explain it then, Mr Holmes?"

That problem had been occupying my mind for some time. In many ways, it was one of the most unusual deaths I had ever or would ever come across in the course of my career. Mr Blythe had literally been consumed by an intense blaze, hot enough to destroy flesh and bone and leave little but ash in its wake. His torso, one arm, hips and upper legs had vanished completely; when I had entered, what little remained of the unfortunate gentlemen, namely a forearm and a shin bone, were still smouldering.

The heat had been intense enough to shrink his skull to half its normal size, but curiously the fire had not spread by more than a few inches from the immediate vicinity of Mr Blythe's body. The stuffed armchair in which he had been sat was now only a charred frame and a few springs, but the bed on which I sat, the rail with his stage clothes and his dressing table were untouched. Even the book he had been reading, a copy of Dickens's _Bleak House_, which was still clasped in the fingers of the unburned hand that lay on the floor beside the chair, was in a perfect state of preservation.

I had no explanation for it, other than a good suspicion as to how the fire had started. It seemed to me either that the blaze had been quick, occurring minutes before the smell of burning flesh had awoken me, or slow and had taken most of the night to consume the poor fellow. Either way, that and the confinement of the fire, would account for the relative lack of smoke, which had saved me from asphyxiation. I was still not sure whether I had had a lucky escape or my survival had been anticipated.

"They tell me this Mr Augustus Blythe was a fire-eater called The Pyromancer," said Lestrade. "Looks like he lived up to his name."

He chuckled, but I found nothing amusing in his poor attempt at humour.

"A man has died here, Inspector," I said coldly.

"Yes, and look who was first to find him," he retorted. "I'm still waiting for an explanation, Mr Holmes."

I sighed wearily. "I was asleep –"

"Here, again? Still not paid your landlady then?"

I glowered at him. "No, but I will."

"Oh, I shouldn't worry about that," said he assuredly. "We'll be offering you suitable accommodation for the rest of your days at Her Majesty's Pleasure in Newgate Prison. The rent is negligible and all you have to do to end your tenancy is to take a short walk to the gallows."

"Inspector!" I said hotly, rising to my feet. "Do you intend to charge me with this man's murder?"

"I do indeed, Mr Holmes."

"What proof do you have that he was murdered?"

The Inspector's eyes widened and he gave a fractured laugh. "Are you trying to tell me this was an accident? After you insisted in the strongest tones the last time we met that the late Mr Young didn't stab himself through the eye? Or have you changed your mind about that too?"

"No," said I, "but it occurs to me that you have made up your mind about this crime, and I have no wish to be your principal suspect."

"You're not my principal suspect," said Lestrade, all too reasonably for my liking. "In fact, you're my _only_ suspect. Mr Sherlock Holmes, I arrest you for the wilful murder of –"

"How did I do it?" I interrupted him. "How did I kill Mr Blythe?"

"What?"

"If killed him, Inspector, the police court will want to know how."

Lestrade sniffed and gave the body an uncertain glance. "You set him on fire."

"And he just sat there and let me do it?"

"Well, then, you hit him over the head first."

I gestured with my manacled hands to the skull. "There are no marks of injury."

"You stabbed him then."

"Prove it."

Lestrade frowned reprovingly. "Now how can I do that, Mr Holmes, when as you can plainly see that Mr Blythe is… well, that the gentleman's soft tissue is gone, as it were."

"Then you do not have a case," I asserted. "All in fact you can say is that the gentleman's body was consumed by fire. Whether he died before or during the inferno is a question you cannot answer. Therefore, you cannot charge me with murder. If you do, you will be laughed out of the police court and your career as an Inspector will be the shortest in the history of the Metropolitan Police Force!"

Lestrade seemed flummoxed, and I was not about to help him find good reason to implicate myself in Mr Blythe's murder.

"Then what _did_ happen here?" Lestrade said shortly.

"Wrath of God," came a policeman's voice over his shoulder.

The sturdy constable who had been stationed outside the door to prevent my escape had been listening to our conversation with interest and now ventured an opinion.

"Plain as a pikestaff," he went on. "Thunderbolt comes down from out of the blue, and bang! He's a goner."

"Really, constable?" said Lestrade, arching his eyebrows in a sardonic manner. "You're not going medieval on me, are you? You have heard about matches, I suppose? Fire doesn't really come from our hands, you know."

The constable blushed. "It was only a thought, sir. How else do you explain why the rest of the room didn't burn? Well, it was either that, sir, or spontaneous combustion."

"Spontaneous combustion?" the Inspector echoed. "Have you taken leave of your senses, man?"

"No, sir. It's a well documented fact. If you'll allow me, sir?"

Lestrade stepped aside and the constable entered the room. He hesitated and grimaced before stooping to unclasp the fingers of the dead man's hand from the book. He backed quickly away and returned to where we stood. Flicking through the pages, he finally settled on what he was looking for and passed the tome across.

"What's this?" said Lestrade disdainfully.

"_Bleak House_ by Mr Charles Dickens, sir," said the constable. "There's this fellow, Krook, and he goes up in flames, just like Mr Blythe here, sir."

"Caused by fire 'engendered in the corrupted humours of the vicious body itself'," Lestrade read out. "What nonsense is this? Are you trying to tell me that this gentleman simply burst into flames all by himself?"

"Well, if it's in Dickens's novel, then it has to be true," I said.

"Now don't you start," said Lestrade, wagging a finger at me. "I've had quite enough of you for one day."

"Then let me help you, Inspector, by telling you a little about the victim. He was arrogant, careless, riddled with fleas and a frequent visitor to the opium dens of Limehouse."

"So you did know him then?"

"No. All this I learnt last evening. Oh, and he carried around with him a small bottle of yellow phosphorus in his trouser pocket."

"He did what?" Lestrade's brow furrowed. "Wasn't that the stuff they used to use on those matches that kept catching alight of their accord, 'Lucifers' as they were called?"

"Quite so, Inspector. If you look in the ash underneath the chair, you'll find a quantity of broken glass, the remains I suspect of the bottle after the heat caused it to crack."

"Then this was an accident after all. Well, I never."

I did not contradict him. If he could not see for himself that the lid was separate from the neck of the bottle and draw the obvious conclusion, then it was not for me to enlighten him and point the finger of blame back at myself. Since I have yet to come across any fire that caused a lid to unscrew itself from a bottle, I could only come to the conclusion that someone had removed it.

I had an unsavoury mental image of someone entering the room, tipping the inflammable solution over Mr Blythe and leaving him to his fiery fate when the liquid dried and the phosphorus became exposed to the air. I hoped for Mr Blythe's sake that the murderer had been merciful enough to render him completely insensible; the thought of the man waking to find himself on fire was not a pleasant one.

"You'd better let this young gentleman out of the cuffs," Lestrade instructed the constable. "I don't know how I'm going to explain this to the coroner or what verdict he'll pass. Death by misadventure, I suppose."

"Unless your alleged murderer feels the need to confess," I said.

Lestrade nodded. "Yes, that would make my life a lot easier."

He looked at me hopefully, as though by sheer willpower alone he could force from me an admission of guilt. I returned his stare until finally he was obliged to look away, back to the remains of Mr Blythe.

"Nasty way to go," said Lestrade, echoing my thoughts. "Even if it was an accident, it still doesn't explain why he didn't try to put the fire out."

"He might have been asleep and been asphyxiated before the flames took hold."

The Inspector shuddered. "I hope so, for his sake, poor devil. It's a pity you're such a heavy sleeper, Mr Holmes. You might have been able to save him, your room only being several doors along from his."

"Yes, I was thinking that too, Inspector," said I, rubbing my chaffed wrists. "It's strange too because I normally wake up at the slightest sound."

"Consider yourself lucky you woke up at all. But for the grace of God, this whole place could have gone up in flames and you with it. There's a kindly Providence looking out for you, Mr Holmes."

"No doubt," I smiled. "However, I…"

The light of revelation is a wonderful thing. There is no saying when its brilliance will shine or what form it will take, but the effect is always the same. Through the unlikely medium of Inspector Lestrade, it had struck me now with such force that I momentarily lost the ability to speak. I saw now so clearly that I could not believe I had been so blind.

"Inspector, you are a savant," I murmured.

"Are you trying to be cheeky, young man?" said he, puffing up his chest in indignation. "Because if you are –"

"Not at all. In fact, I believe I can help your investigation. I know who the murderer is!"

* * *

_Well, about time too! So, this really is your last chance to make up your mind about the identity of the murderer. Mr Holmes knows, but do __**you**__?_

_If not, all is revealed in Chapter Twelve!_

_Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!_

* * *

The "in case anyone's interested" bit – spontaneous human combustion has been known about for centuries and all sorts of explanations offered for its cause. It is typified by a localised blaze that spreads very little beyond the body, which is totally or almost nearly consumed by a fire hot enough to cremate bone. An explanation has found recently, involving the wick effect of clothes (it's too grisly to go into details here!).

Not until 1879 were guidelines laid down about the handling of crime scenes, so as this is set the year before, it is entirely likely that the sergeant could have shut the suspect in the room where he could have tampered with the evidence.


	13. Chapter Twelve

_**The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python**_

**Chapter Twelve**

With promises to share what I knew with Lestrade after I had made a few inquiries, I was glad to leave the confines of the late Mr Blythe's dressing room and find myself back in the presence of my fellow performers.

Word of the tragedy had spread and what looked like a minor riot was taking place by the stage door, led mainly by the chorus girls. Edwin joined his canine voice to the affray and his owner, Mr Saltash, was wandering from person to person asking if anyone knew what was going on.

As ever, the theatre manager, Mr Brownlow, was trying to bring order to chaos by asserting that yet another accident had occurred, while his subordinate, Mr Huxtable, had taken the novel approach of subduing the outraged people with regular blasts of his beery breath. The only person missing was Merrivale, who I guessed was still tucked up in bed at this early hour.

I skirted the edge of the mob and ran into Ethel Partridge, the ambitiously-named Camden Canary, who seemed less concerned by the news than the rest of the company.

"Who is it this time?" she wanted to know.

"Mr Blythe. He…"

"Went up in flames? I'm not surprised."

"You aren't?"

She grinned. "Just another accident. You get used to them after a while. And, after all, the show must go on."

I had to admire her spirit, if not her rather blasé manner in the face of death. She skipped away to run through her latest routine before the matinee performance. I found that I strangely tempted to linger to hear what she had planned for _Where the Bee Sucks_, but duty and my suspicions called. I made my way around the throng and ended up pressed between the back of a chorus girl and the wall. Fortunately, she was too agitated to capitalise on my unfortunate situation and I was able to squirm away.

An open doorway provided me with a means of escape and I slipped into the welcome retreat of Old George's room, finally glad to free of the mass of bodies. Behind me, I heard the clink of cups and the whistle of the boiling kettle.

"Want a cuppa, Mr Holmes?" said George.

"Not if it's anything like the milk you brought me last night," I said, turning to face him. "What was in it? My natural assumption would be laudanum."

A cup clattered to the floor. The handle detached itself and twirled across the bare boards until it ended up at my feet. For a long time, George remained where he was, kettle in hand, until finally he set it down and sank into his chair with a resigned air.

"I knew you were going to be trouble," said he, scratching at his grey locks. "First moment I clapped eyes on you, I knew."

"Why, George?"

"I doubt you could understand, Mr Holmes."

"Try me," I said, pulling over a chair to sit opposite him. "It began it with the Flying Matlocks, I believe."

The old man gave a grim smile. "The young one, he reminded me of myself in my younger days. By heavens, he was good. He loved what he did, you could see that. Unless you've been up the on the trapeze and known that feeling, you can't imagine it. In that moment between safety and disaster, your heart is pounding and you can't get your breath. It's the closest man'll ever come to flying, Mr Holmes. That young Matlock, he understood. Because of that, I took him under my wing and was teaching him all I knew."

"And then came the incident with the chorus girl."

George nodded. "You know what it's like backstage. These things go on. But he was cruel, Mr Holmes, cruel and depraved. That Mavis was a good girl, and he told her he'd marry her. I heard 'em, that night, she telling him she was expecting, and he just laughing at her. Called her the worst names a man can ever call a woman. He killed her, Mr Holmes, as surely as if he'd drowned her himself. And he didn't care none, he said it was no fault of his. The police had said it was suicide and left it at that. Where's the justice in that? Who was there to speak for Mavis and her unborn babe?"

"So you took matters in your own hands?"

"He was practising one night up on the trapeze. I told him what he'd done was wrong, but he laughed at me, just as he'd laughed at her. Called me a fool and a pathetic old cripple. I was that angry as I left the stage I thought to teach him a lesson. So I unhooked the corner of the net. He always ended with a fall, you see, just to scare the audience. Well, he fell that night, and there was no net there to save him."

There was a glint of the old fire in his eye as he spoke, the same anger that had driven him that night.

"I didn't mean him to die," George went on. "I wanted him to know what it was like to feel your legs break and know that your life is over. I wanted him to know what it is was to spend the rest of your days with a useless body, what it was to be weak and helpless and frightened like that poor Mavis had been."

He sobered and stared at his hands.

"But die he did. I heard his neck snap like a dry twig. I thought I'd be arrested, but this fat policeman came in and said it was an accident, and that was an end of it."

"Except it wasn't," said I. "It was only the beginning."

"Oh, it got easier after that, believe you me. They were all a bad lot. No one did anything about their evil ways, so I did. I caught that Jumping Jack Price going through the pockets of the girls' coats. He'd have stolen from a blind man, he would."

"You cut his throat."

"Drugged him with laudanum first, dragged him onto the stage and did the business."

"Kardinski, the escapologist?"

"He was a good-looking man, and he knew it. He used to invite the girls who came to the stage door back to his dressing room and take advantage of 'em. It weren't right, him using them like that. So, one night, when he was preparing to practice that act of his with the crabs and the locked box, I took his key. He shut himself in and couldn't get out."

"The Amazing Electric Man too? What had he done?"

"He came in one night covered with blood. Wasn't his, though. I found the poor devil on the step of the stage door. He'd hit him so hard, he'd lost his front teeth and broken his nose. The police weren't interested, because there were no witnesses. I turned the gas on in his room one night and then scorched his hands and his feet, just like them as do when they're struck by lightning. They all thought it was his act that killed him."

"Then came the prestidigitator, Mr Crump."

"He was always in need of money, him. I overheard him, blackmailing Mr Brownlow about those affairs of his, and what with him being too spineless to stand up to Crump, the man was helping himself to our wages. He had to be stopped, Mr Holmes. I told him I wanted to talk to him after the others had gone home one night. There he was, on stage, strutting about proud as any peacock. I was waiting for him, up above, with a metal beam. The weight crushed him, and then I hauled him back to his dressing room and put that snake of his around him."

"That was where you erred," said I. "Pythons do not break their victim's ribs."

George gave a snort of laughter. "Well, who'd have known that?"

"Merrivale did. He became concerned and asked me to look into the deaths. He was in fear of his own life, but then he was never in any danger, was he? You told me so, yesterday afternoon, when you invited me in. 'Talent like that deserves to do well', you said. I should have known then."

"The others had no talent. They had no love for their art. And it is an art, Mr Holmes, make no mistake. Oh, it may not be hanging up there in no National Gallery, but there's a skill in entertaining people. You either have it or you don't. If you don't, you try."

"Like Mr Saltash and his dog?"

"He's an old man. No harm in him. He'd be in the workhouse now if it wasn't for Mr Brownlow. So would I, come to that."

"You have no family to support you?"

George shook his head. "These people here are all I need. Like any family, when one of 'em's in trouble, you have to do something about it. Like keeping hearing poor Mrs Young crying night after night; tore me insides up to hear it, it did. That husband of hers was no but a bully. He beat her black and blue, never on the face where it would show, mind, coward that he was."

He sat up and raised his grizzled chin in defiance.

"It had to be done. I don't regret it one bit. I hit him over the head and drove that knife of his through his eye. I'm only sorry you fell under suspicion, Mr Holmes. If I'd known you were sleeping here then, I'd have seen to it differently."

"You knew I was here last night," I said. "Did you mean to kill me too, George?"

A confused expression came to his face. "No, son, not you. I didn't want you interfering, that's all."

"Why did Mr Blythe have to die?"

"He was always in them opium dens when he should have been performing. And him keep encouraging the youngsters to join him in his filthy habit and dragging them down with him. Then last night he came in and called our audience 'scum', and them who's paid their money good and proper to be entertained. No, he was a wrong 'un."

"So you poured his yellow phosphorus solution over him and left him to die."

George nodded. "He was dead to the world when I found him. I'd slipped a little of that laudanum I take for the pain in me back in his tea. I had to make you sleep too, son, so you wouldn't wonder what was happening if you'd smelled smoke. I've seen men burn that like before, nice and contained like, so you and the theatre were in no danger."

My mind filled with the horror of the man's death, and I could not prevent the shiver that rose up from the bottom of my spine.

"How did you know it was me?" George asked.

"The milk," I replied. "I'm a light sleeper usually. Last night was the best I've slept in ages. Inspector Lestrade reminded me how unusual it was for me to sleep so well, and it suddenly made sense."

"It could have been chance."

I shook my head. "The killer had to be someone with an intimate knowledge of the theatre and the backstage gossip. You often sit here with your door open – I remember you appearing at the opportune moment when Mrs Webber was pawing me outside your room yesterday. You heard us of course. Then there was the manner of the murders. Mr Young had been struck down from behind. In whose presence would he be confident enough not to suspect an ulterior motive if they came up behind him? Why, someone seemingly old and feeble. But you aren't that, are you, George?"

I gestured to the handbill.

"You told me about your act on the high wire and trapeze and then your work on the railways, and still I did not put the pieces together. It takes a man with exceptional upper body strength to drag a corpse from the stage downstairs or to drive a knife into a man's skull, the same sort of strength required to swing from the wires and perform aerial acts. I allowed myself to be deceived, like everyone was. We all called you Old George. But old doesn't mean weak."

George inhaled deeply and released it in a long sigh of weariness. "What will you do now, Mr Holmes?"

"You've murdered seven people. Justice must be done."

He lit his pipe and gazed inquiringly up at me through a haze of blue-grey smoke. "Then why are you still here? Shouldn't you have run off to that Inspector of yours by now and had me arrested?"

It took me a long time to find an answer. He was correct of course; if I was honest, I was not sure why I had not told Lestrade my suspicions in the first place. Something had held my hand, and I would not allow myself to admit what that was.

"Well, Mr Holmes?" he prompted.

In the end, the truth slipped from my tongue a good deal easier than it should have.

"Because they will hang you, George."

He puffed sagely at his pipe. "My life ended a long time ago, son, on that day I fell and ended up a cripple. Since then, I've been filling my days. Death is just a formality."

"You aren't afraid?"

"Not enough to let it stand in the way of doing what I knew was right. That's what you must do, young man. As long as you live, never let nothing stop you from doing your duty. I don't say it's easy, but you have to make yourself hard, here inside," said he, thumping at his chest. "Once you let sentiment take hold, there's no hope. Someone has to stand up and be counted to make up for all those who can't. 'Stiffen the sinews and summon up the blood', as they say."

" 'Disguise fair nature with hard-favoured rage'," I finished. "Shakespeare, _Henry V_."

"That's him," George said approvingly at my recall. "I always remember this fat actor fellow from back when I was starting out who knew every line of every play that Shakespeare ever wrote. Always had a saying for every occasion, he did. Every night afore every performance, he'd say the same thing: "I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, my boys, straining upon the start. The game's afoot!" He chuckled to himself. "I can still see him, standing in the wings, saying that. Ah, good times and good people."

His gaze drifted back in my direction.

"Now, go on, get out of here," he said fiercely. "Just you remember what I said. You find that Inspector of yours and tell him what you know. Don't you worry about me. I can shift for myself."

It was with the greatest reluctance that I left that dingy room with its rich aromas of stewed tea and strong tobacco. The satisfaction I should have felt in bringing the murderer of seven men to justice eluded me. I could not condone his actions, but a part of me had understood. That small spark of compassion troubled me deeply. It was irrational and had no place in the tale which I had just heard.

I stood there, in the midst of my fellow performers, hearing not their noisy babble, but instead the voice of reason. George had done what he thought was right; so must I. No man was above the law, least of all when it came to dispensing his own brand of justice. Seven men were dead, murdered horribly. If any doubt lingered, the thought of the bodies I had seen was enough to quash any hesitation. Their killer must be brought to account for his crimes. I dallied no longer and went in search of Lestrade.

He was still in Mr Blythe's dressing room, supervising the removal of the remains. A brief sketch of what I knew was enough to make both his and the constable's mouths drop open in amazement and then give way to much laughter. The news that I had obtained the man's confession sobered them considerably; fanciful theories were one thing, an admission of guilt another.

We had barely stepped out into the dressing room corridor when a piercing scream from somewhere above made us break into a run. Again it came, leading us along with the others in the direction of the stage. There we found Ethel Partridge, mid-scream, her hands clasped to her face and her eyes directed skywards.

"He's up there," she wailed. "Stop him! He'll fall!"

A quick glance confirmed her fears. Up on the platform, George stood with the trapeze in his hands. His expression was calm and composed, only his eyes betraying the intensity of concentration required for what he was about to do.

"What's that silly old fool up to?" Lestrade wanted to know. "Come down from there, sir! This instant, I say."

George made no reply. Lestrade started forward to follow him up the ladder, but I caught his arm and held him back.

"What the devil do you think you're playing at?" the Inspector said hotly. "If he escapes, Mr Holmes, I'll arrest you for interfering in an official police investigation!"

"He isn't intending to escape," said I. "At least not in the way you mean. He wants to fly again."

"He wants to what?"

"Look!"

Lestrade's gaze followed my pointing finger. George had propelled himself off the platform and had begun to swing. Faster, faster, gaining momentum, forcing his maimed body to remember the actions of his youth. He had forgotten nothing, but where the spirit was willing, the flesh was to prove weak. I saw his grip begin to fail, the hands begin to slip. I thought I saw him meet my eyes and smile. And then he fell.

I grabbed Lestrade and pulled him clear with such force that we both ended up sprawled on the floor. The body crashed into the place where the Inspector had been standing just a second before with a sickening crunch of bone and the rending of flesh. Something splashed onto my face and I touched my cheek to wipe away spots of blood and whitish brain matter.

The girls had begun screaming and hands descended to my arms to help me up. Their concern was immediate, but mine was for the future. There would be no more murders made to look like accidents at the Hoxton Hippodrome. Justice had been done, although I doubted Lestrade would approve of the method. Either way, as George had said, death was just a formality. A higher court would judge him now.

* * *

_Well, I think everyone knew the identity of the murderer – but did you know why?_

_Not quite the end of the case – see you in the Epilogue!_

_Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!_


	14. Epilogue

_**The Curious Case of the Prestidigitator's Python**_

**Epilogue**

One week later, I was back where I had started, standing on the pavement outside my rooms in Montague Street, looking up at the window behind which I should have been safely ensconced instead of buttoning my overcoat against the driving snow. It was a situation made infinitely worse by the knowledge that I had only myself to blame.

Following the events at the Hoxton Hippodrome and the death of Old George, I had had to reveal the truth of my real purpose in masquerading as a performer, which seemed to come as a surprise to no one, except the confused Mr Saltash, who had the situation explained to him by his new apprentice, the lad who cleaned boots backstage. The chorus girls giggled, Mr Huxtable declared that he had always thought there was something fishy about me, and Edwin the dog expressed his disappointment at the prospect of my imminent departure by copiously licking my face.

Mr Brownlow had been especially effusive in his gratitude. He had thanked me exceedingly for saving his theatre, and pressed a five pound note into my hand, winking meaningfully as he did so, which left me in some doubt as to whether I was being rewarded for my services or given an inducement to keep quiet about his extra-marital dalliances.

With the case concluded, I had no reason to stay, and yet I lingered that day in the wings for the afternoon performance. That it went ahead, as though elderly men falling to their deaths was nothing out of the ordinary, came as less of a shock to me than I thought. As Ethel Partridge had said, the show must go on.

And so I did get to hear her rendition of _Where the Bee Sucks_, and to this day can still remember her pert figure dancing around the stage in a black bombazine bodice adorned with an alarming amount of yellow feathers. For the last time before his fame spread across two continents, I witnessed Merrivale thrill the audience with his vocal range, confident now in the knowledge that he would not become another in a long list of accidents. Now I merely smiled when the chorus girls stampeded past and each took the liberty of smacking my behind. Strange how time and experience can mellow a man.

When I had had to leave, I found myself consumed by a great sense of loss. I had learnt much and would return to those lessons time and time again in the course of my career. More than that, I had discovered something about myself too, that I am as amenable to the approval of the crowd as any man and, although I would never put myself before such a multitude again, my most intimate friend would later note my susceptibility to flattery, which I have never been able to deny.

As failings go, there are worse vices, for instance, letting the feel of money in one's pocket go to one's head. There is something about obtaining one's first real wage that is liable to produce extravagance. Before I knew what I was doing, I was dining in London's most expensive restaurant and then heading off down the Tottenham Court Road, where I made the startling purchase of a genuine Stradivarius for the derisory sum of fifty-five shillings. Take away the expense of new strings, pay the back rent I owed, and I was down to three half-crowns and a handful of pennies.

I eked out a pitiful existence until the rent became due again, when I found the door barred against me once more. I was faced with the same dire prospect as before, namely of begging money from my brother. That would invariably mean an explanation of my activities of late, and I doubted I was likely to impress with my tales of life backstage. Out would come the old arguments, he would plead poverty and suggest that I got myself a proper job. Compared to that, sleeping rough for the night had much to recommend it.

What I needed was another client, one who would pay for the privilege of my services in advance rather than luring me into a maelstrom of murder and mayhem as Merrivale had done. Where I was to find such a person was another matter. I could not take on a client unless I had access to my rooms, except I was barred until I paid my rent, which I could only do if I had a client. I was caught in an impossible situation.

I would have said irretrievably so had I not caught sight of a small, wiry, ferret-faced man heading briskly towards me. I gave serious thought to turning in the opposite direction and pretending I had not seen him, but he was waving furiously and increased his pace to a trot when he saw he might fail to attract my attention. With a sigh of resignation, I remained where I was and presently Inspector Lestrade arrived panting at my side.

"By Jove!" said he. "This snow is a dashed nuisance and no mistake."

I grunted my agreement.

"I thought I recognised you, young man," said he. "What are you doing standing out here in a blizzard?" His keen gaze darted to the lodging house and he grinned in understanding. "Ah, I see. How many weeks do you owe this time?"

"Just the one," I said with irritation. "What was it you wanted, Inspector?"

He gave a self-important sniff. "Well, after that last business, it occurred to me, just in passing you understand, that between us, we didn't do half badly."

I felt like reminding him that his involvement had largely consisted of trying to find an excuse to have me arrested. It was a result of my deductions that he was able to claim full credit for solving the mystery of the deaths at the Hoxton Hippodrome, and I suspected gained considerable standing in his superiors' eyes. I said nothing, however; belittling the man when he was trying to be ingratiating would have been an unworthy victory.

"So, I thought, if you were open to the idea, and you being serious about this consulting detective career of yours, that, just from time to time, well, that I could consult you."

I understood why he was being unduly hesitant in his manner. Indeed, he seemed almost embarrassed to be asking. His colour was up, his chin was raised with what little pride he could muster and his feet shuffled uneasily on the icy cobbles. For a man as pompous as he appeared to be, to even suggest such a proposition must have been anathema to his soul.

"Well, young man, speak up," said he, blowing vigorously on his hands. "What do you say?"

"I agree," said I. "On one condition: you stop calling me 'young man'. I find it incredibly patronising."

"But you are. What are you, four-and-twenty, Mr Holmes?"

"Five-and-twenty," I corrected him. "I've just had a birthday."

"Oh, many happy returns," said he.

He fished in his pocket and pulled out two crumpled pound notes, which he held out to me.

"A belated birthday present," he explained. "To help with the rent."

"Inspector, I can't accept this," I protested.

As deeply touched as I was by his generous gesture, I could not contemplate taking the man's money. From the state of his shoes, he looked as though he needed every penny for himself.

"Of course you can," said he. "I don't think I ever got round to thanking you for saving my life. The police surgeon said that old fellow would have made a terrible mess of me if he'd landed on me. Would've squashed me flat, he reckoned."

"All the same…"

I tried to return the notes to him, but he held up his hand. "If you can't accept it as a gift, then take it as a retainer for your next case."

"My next case?" I echoed. "That is wishful thinking, I'm afraid. I am currently unemployed."

Lestrade grinned broadly. "I can't tell you how glad I am to hear you say that, Mr Holmes. You see, there's this business I'm having a bit of trouble with. A man been mauled to death by a leopard."

"At a zoo?"

"No, at a club in Piccadilly."

"Ah, that is a little out of the ordinary, Inspector."

"Oh, you haven't heard the half of it. This leopard, and here's the really funny thing, well, sir, it was a stuffed specimen."

I could not prevent the upward rise of my eyebrows. "Very well, you have my attention. What form would this 'help' take?"

"I'm sure the staff know something, but they're a tight bunch. I can't get a squeak out of them. Now if I could get you in there, on a temporary placement, perhaps you could ask around and report your findings back to me."

The prospect of waiting hand and foot on a number of over-indulged and pampered gentlemen was less appealing, but I could not deny that I was intrigued by the case. There was, however, one thing I needed to know before I committed myself to the task.

"This is, I take it, a gentleman's club?" I asked. "No large, over-friendly women with a penchant for young men on the premises?"

Lestrade frowned in puzzlement. "I don't think so."

"Good. Then I accept. And we'll consider this money a loan. Thank you, Inspector."

"As you wish, young ma– I mean, Mr Holmes."

"Hail us a hansom while I clear my debts and we can set out for Piccadilly without delay."

I bounded up the steps and hammered on the door. The landlady accepted my offering without comment and finally allowed me access. I stuffed a toothbrush and a change of clothes into a bag and was almost out the door when my eye lit upon the old clay pipe I had left on the mantelpiece.

Considering the nature of its last owner, I should have thrown it away. Yet I had not. It had been a gift; I kept it as a warning. It served as a reminder that the pursuit of justice and its dispensation were as diametrically opposed as the sun and the moon. It was but a short step from law to lawlessness.

I stowed the pipe in my pocket and headed out to join Lestrade. After all, how could I keep him waiting when the game was truly afoot?

**The End**

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_I've really, really enjoyed writing this story – it's up there with my personal favourites. I would never have thought a couple of months ago that I could come up with a story that combined a half-naked, young Sherlock Holmes (okay, ladies, calm down now! That includes you, Mrs Webber) with death by crabs, spontaneous human combustion and the estimable Inspector Lestrade. I'm truly sorry it's over. _

_I hope you've all enjoyed it. My thanks to everyone for reading. Huge thanks to everyone who took the time to leave reviews, offer suggestions or PM me. I really do appreciate it._

_Well, until next time, that's all, folks (unless you'd like to hear about the man mauled to death by a stuffed leopard at a gentleman's club in Piccadilly…?) You do? Well, onwards to 'The Mystery of the Tankerville Leopard'!_

* * *

_**Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Lestrade are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction has not been created for profit nor authorised by any official body.**_


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